


Hope Remembered II - Fury

by Parda



Series: The Hope Saga [8]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Episode: s05e13 Revelation 6:8, F/M, Four Horsemen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 17:11:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 31,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12280881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parda/pseuds/Parda
Summary: Cassandra goes after the Horsemen





	1. Chapter 1

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**  
**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**  
And you wonder  
where we're going,  
where's the rhyme  
and where's the reason.  
**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**  
**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

The Eve of the Day of the Dead was a good day to hunt. It would be a good day to kill. It would even be a good day to die.

Cassandra was ready to do either. Usually, during the three thousand years which she had survived, usually she had been the hunted. But today—on this last day of the year, on this day when the wheel turned from the light to the dark, on this day sacred to the Dark Goddess—today on this day she was the Huntress, and her prey was near.

Kronos.

Cassandra had been hunting Kronos for four months, ever since June, when she had found out he was still alive. She had tracked him to Seacouver yesterday, and only a few moments ago she had seen him on the far side of the television studio's back lot. He had smiled and waved, then disappeared into the rows of abandoned storehouses, a flattened barren space where only weeds grew.

She moved silently through the narrow alleys that ran between the buildings, the sand rough and grating under her feet. Even through her jacket, the mid-autumn breeze was damp and chill as it came from the water, bringing with it the sharp tang of fish and tar. Oily scum floated on the puddles left from the recent rain, and the water showed black from the darkness of the clouds.

It would be a good place to die. The hilt of her sword was smooth in her hand, the familiar weight both comforting and exhilarating. Soon.

Cassandra froze as the sensation of another Immortal crawled up her spine and lodged itself at the base of her skull, an angry, insistent ache. She gritted her teeth at the temporary pain and eased back silently into the shadows of the alley. She heard footsteps now, coming closer. It was a careful tread, quick but light, a slight hardness to the sound that meant boots, not rubber soles, a rhythm to the stride that meant man, not woman. Kronos.

He came closer, and she could hear the whisper of cloth against cloth. Cassandra shifted her grip on her sword. Closer still, and now she could hear the faintest hint of breathing, the rough scrape of shoes on concrete instead of on sand. Finally, after three thousand years, she did not have to wait anymore. She balanced over both feet, finding her center. Cassandra was ready to kill. She was eager to kill.

She was dying to kill.

A little closer. Just a bit more.... and NOW!

She pivoted from her hiding place and swung her sword in one smooth motion, vengeance and bloodlust tracing fire through her veins. Cassandra felt the hammered shock of steel against steel surging from her hands to her shoulders with relief and hate and joy.

But it was not Kronos. It was Duncan MacLeod, the Highland Foundling.

"What are you doing?" Duncan demanded as he stepped back, his sword still blocking hers, his long tan coat swaying with the force of the impact.

"Trying to kill someone!" Cassandra shot back, wondering how he could ask such a stupid question. "What does it look like?"

She stepped away from Duncan, ignoring him, trying to pick up any hints of Kronos, the faintest sensation. There was nothing. He was gone.

The waiting was not over yet.

~~~~~

Duncan insisted she come with him to his loft, and she finally agreed, planning to ask Duncan for suggestions about where to look for Kronos in Seacouver. She drove her rental car carefully as she followed his T-bird, for groups of children in garish costumes scampered from house to house and sometimes dashed across the streets. It was almost dusk, and candle-lit pumpkins shone from many porches and windows. She had forgotten about the American custom of Halloween, that peculiar adaptation of the Celtic Day of the Dead, where trick-or-treating for candy had replaced food offerings for wandering souls.

In the loft, Duncan offered her a drink, then poured himself one. She had asked him a few questions about where to look for Kronos while they were in the elevator; now he had his own questions for her. "Why don't you tell me about it?"

"I'm wasting time." Cassandra did not want to sit and chat over a friendly drink, she wanted to kill Kronos. She started for the door, but Duncan stood and took her by the arm as she walked past him.

"Then waste it," he said firmly.

"I can't!" Cassandra had stiffened under his grasp, and he let go of her now, but she knew she had to make Duncan understand so he would not stop her again. "He's getting away. I shouldn't even be here!"

"This is exactly where you should be," Duncan corrected, as she backed away from him in case he tried to grab her again. "You're in no shape to fight anybody, Cassandra."

"I'll take the chance!" she said defiantly.

"Then you'll lose." His voice was flat and certain.

She paced between the leather couch and the coffee table, but did not look at him. He was right, and she knew it, and she hated it.

Duncan sat down again on the chair, but he was still trying to convince her to stay. "Cassandra, I know Koren. I know how dangerous he is."

She faced him then, her arms tight across herself, her eyes narrowed. "You don't know him at all." Duncan had no idea just how dangerous he was. Duncan did not even know his real name. "Long before he called himself 'Koren,' he went by another name." She took a deep breath before she said the word. There was power in names. "Kronos."

Duncan merely looked confused and shrugged. He had obviously never heard of him, but Cassandra was certain Duncan had heard of Kronos's little band. "And he was one of the Four Horsemen."

"The what ...?" Duncan said in disbelief, then shook his head. "He can't be."

"No?" she challenged.

Duncan came over to her and protested, "If the Horsemen were alive at all, they existed ages ago, maybe thousands of years. They can't exist anymore."

Had Duncan forgotten he was an Immortal? She had existed for thousands of years, and she was still alive. So was Kronos. The Four Horsemen had existed, too.

"I'd give my life to believe that." She sat down on the edge of the coffee table, and reached for the hourglass that sat next to the chess board, the smooth curve of glass cool under her fingers, the sand shifting, sliding. She might indeed give her life for that, to see the last of the Horsemen destroyed. It would be worth it.

"But it's not true. One lives." Kronos lived, and so did she. She turned the glass over, and the sand started to cascade over itself, wave burying wave. Cassandra knew sand. She had been raised in a desert, a land of fierce beauty and awful emptiness, where the night sky was black silk with powdered diamonds, and the day was harsh sunlight and scouring wind. She knew the grit and taste of sand in food, the rasp of sand underfoot, the hot scent of sand dust in mouth and nose, the roughness of sand against cheek upon waking. Sand was endlessly solid and fluid, each single grain angular and distinct as it danced along the surface of the dunes, while the dunes themselves flowed and rippled and cascaded, burying everything in their path.

Cassandra had seen sand bury houses, temples, cities, entire civilizations. Sand had buried her tribe, too, but the sand that had buried her people had been soaked and darkened with their blood. She had not been able to arrange their garments and anoint their bodies, to say the final prayers that would set free their souls. The Four Horsemen had taken that from her, too.

"I can still see them," she said, watching the sand, remembering. She had seen them almost every night for these last four months in her dreams, her nightmares. "They were monsters. They rode across the world we knew and brought terror and death." They were Terror and Death. She had known the Four Horsemen by their real names, but the apostle John had named them well enough in the Christian Bible—Famine, War, Pestilence, Death.

"Where they were, life ceased." Cassandra saw again her childhood playmate Ashiz, her skull split open, her face and breasts covered in blood, her belly ripe with the child who was never to be born.

"They were without mercy." Little Taliq, barely old enough to walk, screaming in terror as the horse thundered down upon him. The Horseman with the face of the skull, the Horseman she later knew as Methos, bending slightly, cutting Taliq in half with a casual swipe of his sword, then galloping on. Methos not even watching as Taliq's head and shoulders went flying through the air, the little boy's mouth still open in a silent, frozen scream. The boy's mother screaming as her son's severed head struck her in the face, spattering her with her son's blood, screaming incessantly until she too was beheaded, and her own blood fountained forth upon the sand.

"They were without fear." The masks of the Horsemen hid their features, but even unmasked, their faces showed nothing human, only savage pleasure at another's pain. Just like all the other raiders she had seen throughout the years—Greeks, Hebrews, Romans, Egyptians, Goths, Manchus, Mongols, Vikings, Crusaders, Cossacks, Japanese, Nazis ... every culture, every continent, every century. Over and over again.

Cassandra could watch the sand no longer. She went to the window and stared out, seeing nothing. "They took what they wanted, and left nothing. Hijad, the healer who found me as a baby and raised me as his own; my foster-sisters; the children; my people... Everything I knew and loved was destroyed. It was the end of the world." John the Apostle had been right; the Horsemen had brought the apocalypse, at least for her. She had died that day, too, in more ways than one. "The end of my world."

Duncan spoke quietly behind her, his voice gentle. "I never knew."

She nodded, acknowledging his sympathy, grateful for it, but she did not speak, unable to trust her voice. She had not wanted him to know. She hated telling these stories; she hated remembering those times, reliving that life, those deaths. She struggled to control her breathing, her tears, but she did not seem to have any control anymore—not over her anger, not over her anguish, not over her fear. The only thing she had control over was her hate. Hate would see her through to the end.

"I tried to forget what happened." She forced her voice to some semblance of calmness, of reasonableness. "Years turned into centuries, then more centuries. I thought I'd succeeded." She had succeeded, for a century or so, until the Four Horsemen had turned her adopted son Roland against her, and the nightmare had begun again.

Roland stalked her through the ages, capturing her over and over again, keeping her as a slave for a time, then selling her to another when he tired of her. She did nothing to stop him, for she could not fight him. Her own vows to her son Roland and the ancient prophecy forbade her from even trying. She was forced to wait for Duncan, the Highland Foundling, to challenge Roland.

It had been a long wait. She had been so relieved when Roland was finally dead, when the ordeal was over. She had felt happy, free for the first time in three millennia. But that happiness had lasted only a few weeks.

"Then I learned Kronos was alive." She had not been able to fight Roland, but she could fight Kronos. For over three thousand years she had waited for Duncan to rescue her. She had run; she had hidden; she had suffered and submitted in silence, but no more. Never again. She was never going to let a man to stalk her and hunt her again. This time, she was going to fight back. This time, she would be the one to kill.

And nothing, and no one, was going to stop her.

Duncan was behind her now, his hand lightly stroking her hair, the warmth of his body close by.

Cassandra turned to him, but she could not meet his eyes, knowing she would break down completely if she allowed the gentleness in him to reach her. She needed to be strong. She needed to be hard. "All the hate, all the pain...." The hate surged through her, and that was good, but the pain came with it, and the anguish left her trembling. "I tried to leave behind...."

She should have known there was no escape. The memories would never fade, and the nightmares would never end. She closed her eyes and asked despairingly, "It never leaves, does it?"

"Sometimes," Duncan said, still gentle, his hands caressing her face, her hair. "For a while." He kissed her forehead, then her lips, a simple touch there, nothing more. His arms went about her, and she relaxed against him, feeling safe, for a time at least. They stood there for a moment or two, then his arms tightened, and suddenly she didn't feel safe anymore.

She stood very still.

"Cassandra?" Duncan immediately pulled back. "Is something wrong?"

Cassandra had asked him the same question once. "Duncan, I'm sorry —" She stopped abruptly and shook her head. Why should she be sorry? She hadn't done anything wrong. She stepped back from him. "I'm just...."

He took her hands in his and held them gently. "Are you tired?"

"Yes, but ... It's not just that. I...." She did not want to do this. Duncan was watching her, waiting for her. Cassandra shook her head in amazement, suddenly realizing that she did not have to go to bed with a man if she did not want to. She could choose.

Duncan was still waiting patiently "Cassandra?"

She took a deep breath. "Duncan, what happened between us in June was marvelous; it was wonderful." She smiled at him then, a true smile, and was pleased to see him smile back. "It meant a great deal to me." He would probably never realize just how much. "But, right now, knowing that Kronos is out there, and—remembering...." She looked at him earnestly, hoping he would understand, not sure what she would do if he did not. "I'm ... I don't...."

She was incredibly relieved to see him nod. "You don't mind?" she asked timidly.

"Mind?" He shook his head. "I'm a little disappointed," he said with a quick grin, "but I understand. It's all right, Cassandra." He gave her hands a brief squeeze and let go.

"I'll go back to my hotel room," she said.

"You should stay here." When she started to object, he said firmly. "We shouldn't be separated with Kronos out there."

She looked at him for a moment, then nodded. "But I take the couch," she said with equal firmness. She would take no argument from him about this. When she had been here before, he had taken the couch, and she knew he had not slept well.

"All right," he said, smiling, then asked casually, "Hungry?" At her nod, he said, "Let's make dinner."

During the meal they deliberately avoided all talk of Kronos and the Horsemen. They spoke instead of movies and books and things they enjoyed. After dinner she took a shower and changed into leggings and a loose sweatshirt, then sat on the couch and idly picked up a pawn from the chess set on the coffee table.

"A game of chess?" Duncan suggested, coming over to sit in the chair across from her.

"I suspect you've gotten quite a lot better than you were when you were thirteen," she answered with a smile. She had been the one to introduce him to the game, during that night he had spent with her in Donan Woods.

His eyebrows went up in amusement and acknowledgment, just like Connor's. He was darker than Connor though, with brown eyes and black hair, and a bit taller. "I've had some practice," Duncan admitted. "White or black?"

"I'll take black. Like old times."

They set the pieces up and played in silence. Cassandra tried to concentrate, for Duncan had indeed gotten some practice. He had been quick at the game when she had taught it to him, and he was very good now. She hadn't played much chess at all since Connor had been her student, just before Duncan had been born. She wondered if Connor and Duncan played chess, and, if so, who won. And who won during their sparring matches? They were very different, these MacLeods.

Cassandra started to move her bishop, then looked more closely at the board. Duncan had threatened her rook on the move before, and she had escaped that gambit, but now she saw that she had opened herself up for a trap. It was a simple trap really, but an effective one. His knight was threatening both her king and her queen. She knew she must sacrifice the queen to protect the king. The king was the most important piece on the board, even though the queen was the more powerful.

"Check," Duncan said cheerfully. Then he smiled at her.

Cassandra gazed at him for a second, flushing under that knowing smile and those mocking eyes. She hooked her fingers under the edge of the chess board and flung the board and the pieces off the table. The board cracked when it landed, and the pieces scattered over the floor. She stared defiantly at Duncan, the rage and frustration still boiling within her. He wasn't smiling now, was he?

Duncan merely looked at her. Then he leaned over and picked up the pieces that had rolled toward him. As he set them on the table, he asked, "Do you have these temper tantrums often?"

Cassandra wanted to slap him. How dare he? But even though his tone had been humorous, his eyes were not. Duncan was not laughing at her or mocking her; he was concerned. And he was right. It was a temper tantrum—total, uncontrolled rage.

"No," she whispered painfully, the rage subsiding, but not disappearing. "They used to come every few centuries or so." She had destroyed a small pine tree with her sword when Duncan had been six. "Would you say that was often?" she asked, trying to make a joke of it.

Duncan shook his head, smiling a little, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners, reminding her of Ramirez. "No."

"No." It was a still a whisper, a rueful echo. Duncan was very young. "But ... they're coming more often now, ever since...." Ever since she had tried to take Connor's head in Edinburgh, but she did not want to tell Duncan about that. She hoped Connor had not told Duncan about that. She tried again. "They come, and I can't control...." Her voice was shaking, and she stopped. She could not control even that anymore.

She slipped off the couch to pick up the rest of the pieces, then stayed where she was, kneeling by the table, her head down.

Duncan joined her there, squatting in front of her, waiting.

She did not want to look at him. "I'm sorry. I'm not usually such a ... poor loser."

Duncan leaned forward and took her hands in his. His hands were very warm, very strong. "Maybe you'd better finish telling me about it," he said, and when she nodded he pulled her up gently to sit on the couch next to him. "How did you find out about Kronos?" he asked.

"Roland. He left a letter, to be given to me after he died."

"Roland knew Kronos?" Duncan asked in surprise.

"Oh, yes. Kronos was Roland's teacher. One of his teachers," she amended. "Roland rode with the Four Horsemen for a time. They called him 'Little Brother.'"

"I didn't realize Roland was that old."

"Yes." He was old, but he had never really grown up. "Roland said he sent a letter to Kronos, too." She shrugged. "I'm not the only one hunting."

"So you think Kronos is after you?"

"If he wasn't, he will be now." There was an old score to settle between them. She yawned suddenly, then smiled apologetically at Duncan. "I'm sor—" She stopped herself and said simply, "I'm tired. It's been a long day." She lay down on the couch and pulled the blanket over her. "Good night, Duncan."

"Good night, Cassandra."

~~~~~

It was morning, yesterday's clouds gone, a day of warm sunshine and brisk wind. Paper trash swirled along the gutters of the city streets. Cassandra walked swiftly and warily through the groups of people, searching. She had been searching for a long time.

Kronos had to be here. She had sensed an Immortal just a moment ago. A flicker of movement in an alley beckoned her, and she followed.

A rusty dumpster, more trash, white-scrawled graffiti on a dull brick wall. Where was he? The sullen ache in her head increased, and she whirled, sword in hand. But it was not Kronos.

It was Methos.

Cassandra froze, her sword suddenly heavy and unfamiliar. His hair was short, his face unpainted, but the eyes were the same. Gold and gray eyes, like yellow lichen on granite, a thin skim of life on a deadly cold rock.

He walked toward her, and she watched him come. He reached out casually and took her sword from her unresisting hands. She knew she should not defy him.

"You'll have to try harder than that," he said, and now his eyes were mocking and amused. He smiled, and he kept smiling as he used her sword to stab her through the heart.

She died slowly, while he watched her writhe in pain.

When she revived, he was still there, standing above her, looking down. "Surprise," he said charmingly. He had always had great charm. "You're not dead."

It was no longer a surprise, but it had been once, long ago. Once, long ago, she had been his. She still was.

Methos knelt beside her, and now his face was the face of a skull. "I will tame you," he said, as he put his hands around her neck, and then he started to squeeze.

Death had come for her again.

~~~~~

Cassandra woke, and did not move. She lay limp and relaxed, controlling her panic. There was an Immortal in the room, but no one was touching her. She opened her eyes cautiously and looked around, then closed her eyes again in relief. She was in Duncan's loft, and he was on the bed not far away.

She lay quietly, waiting for her heart rate to return to normal. It was 1996, and she was in Seacouver. Methos was dead. He was dead. Death could never hurt her again.

Finally, she took a careful breath and sat up on the couch. She huddled into the blanket, staring at the bars of shadows from the street lamp outside the window. It was only three-thirty in the morning; she had been hoping for more than five hours of sleep. Cassandra wished Duncan didn't live in a one-room loft; she wanted to turn on a light, but she did not want to wake him.

She did not have to. She should have known he would be a light sleeper. He came over and sat on the arm of the couch, comfortable in a gray sweat-suit and bare feet, his dark hair loose about his shoulders. "Can't sleep?"

She shrugged. "You know how it is."

"Yeah." He lit the candle on the coffee table, then sat down next to her.

Cassandra controlled her impulse to move away from him and instead stared at the flame.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked.

"Connor," she said. "Heather, actually." Cassandra motioned to the candle. Connor had promised Heather he would light a candle for her on her birthday, and Connor was a man of his word. "He still remembers, after all this time."

"That's not surprising, is it?" Duncan asked. "Not for Connor."

Not for her, either. She would never forget. Not Roland, not Kronos, not Methos. Especially not Methos.

**____________________________________________________**

**The Bronze Age**  
**The Great Desert**  
**____________________________________________________**

Xhandra could not move, and she could not breathe. She was wrapped tightly in a cloth, her legs and arms lashed down with rope. With every breath she tried to take, the hard back of a horse slammed into her chest. At least, she thought it was a horse; it was obviously an animal, and it did not smell like a camel. And ... They ... had ridden horses.

She tried to take little panting breaths, but the air inside the cloth was hot and stifling, and foul with the scent of horse and death and fear. Xhandra gasped more feebly and struggled weakly against her bonds, but she could not breathe.

Finally, after an aching, endless time of fetid, suffocating darkness, the horse stopped. Hands grabbed at her, lifted her, dumped her on the ground. Still, Xhandra could not move. Her arms and legs seemed useless. The hands pulled at her again, unwrapped that winding sheet.

Xhandra squinted her eyes against the harsh desert sunlight, and took in deep grateful breaths of the air. At last!

Then she saw him, right in front of her, and she stopped breathing again, seized by rage and terror. He was one of Them, one of those who had killed her people and destroyed their tents. He was a monster, with a head shaped like a living skull.

"Surprise," the monster said. "You're not dead." His words sounded odd, clipped off and short, not flowing and musical as they were when her people spoke.

Xhandra watched cautiously as he pulled off the mask of the skull. He was no monster, then, but a man. At least, she thought he was a man; he looked almost as inhuman with his mask off as he did with it on. His face was painted blue on the right side, and his eye glittered from within that color, while his left eye was flat gray shot through with yellow spikes.

He seemed almost to smile as he said, "Your kind is hard to kill."

Her kind? What did he mean by that? What kind was he? Was he not, in truth, a man? She knew one way to determine that. Men died. She took the hand he offered her, but as he hauled her to her feet she snatched his knife and tried to stab him.

He wrested the dagger from her and sneered, "You'll have to try harder than that." He shoved her away from him and sheathed the knife.

She would try harder—later. Now, she wanted to see her people, to see Hijad, her foster-father and teacher. "Where are they?" Xhandra demanded. "Hijad? My people? Take me to them." It was not so much a demand now, as a plea.

The man actually smiled at her. "You want to see them?" At her tentative nod, he pointed to a framework of lashed sticks. "There they are."

The frame was piled with skulls, some bleached white, some still ivory, all human. They could not be the skulls of her people, not yet, but she knew well enough what he meant. "You killed them?" she asked in anguished disbelief. Her eyes filled with tears and she blinked quickly, unwilling to show such feelings before him. "All of them?" Not just the ones she had seen die, but all of them? Her father, her friends, her sisters, the boy Taren who liked to gather plants with her, the little children she sang to and played games with, the babies ... all of them? They could not possibly have killed all of them.

But he nodded, seeming well-pleased with himself.

Xhandra stared at him, numb with a deep coldness even though the day was fiercely hot. All of them. What kind of a man killed a babe not yet old enough to walk? Great Mother, he was a monster after all! She recoiled from him, shaking.

He paid no heed to her distress as he reached over and touched the front of her gown. "Including you." He still sounded amused.

Her hands trembled as she examined the bloodied cloth. There was a hole there, a hole made by a sword. Xhandra remembered that sword, remembering the sharp edges of pain as it sliced into her, but now—nothing. "The wound ... it's gone." She looked at him in bewilderment. "I should be dead."

The man with half a face said, "You live because I wish it."

Was he a healer then? What kind of a healer also killed? But no, she should be dead. He must be a magician—a very powerful magician—to heal such a wound, to bring her back from the dead. This was a more powerful magic than she had ever seen. Maybe he was a god.

He continued, "And you stay alive, as long as you please me." His hand went to the side of her face, then traced a line down her neck.

She slapped his hand away. He might be a powerful magician, or a god, but he was acting as a man, and she was not to be touched. Her tribe needed her to be virgin, to carry the power of the Goddess for the healing. When she had started her bleeding times, the elder priestess had opened her passageway, as she did for all the girls. But no man of her tribe had ever dared to touch her, or to look at her in such a way.

This man was not of her tribe.

She did not even see the blow that knocked her to the ground. The side of her face throbbed, and she could taste blood in her mouth.

"That did not please me." He was not amused now. Before she could move, he was kneeling in front of her, yanking up her gown, his hand moving up her leg. "I am Methos," he said, staring into her eyes. "You live to serve me. Never forget that."

She glared back through tangled hair. She would never serve him. Never. He was a murderer and a monster, and she hated him.

Shouts from the other tents drew his attention, and Methos left her lying on the ground.

Xhandra hurriedly pulled her gown back over her legs, shuddering at the remembered touch of his hand. She spat in the dust after him, then shuddered again as she thought of her people. They were dead, all of them. She was alone. What could she do? Where could she go?

She could not stay here, with that face-painted monster who called himself Methos. She had to escape. The horse she had been carried on was still standing there, with some kind of seat on its back. She made her way over to the animal and allowed it to sniff her hand, hoping it wouldn't bite her fingers off. For such a large beast, it seemed friendly. Now, how to get on?

She had almost gotten one leg up when hands grabbed her roughly and yanked her from the horse.

His arm was tight around her throat, and his voice spoke softly in her ear. "You died once today. Did you enjoy that?"

Xhandra whimpered in remembered fear and pain. She did not want to die; he might decide not to bring her back to life again.

Methos held her close against him, and in his other hand he held a knife. "Learn this lesson well," he said impatiently. "I will kill you as many times as it takes to tame you."

The sunshine glittered blindingly on the knife blade as he raised it, and she closed her eyes so she would not have to see it. But she felt the knife as Methos slammed it into her heart, and she tasted the blood again in her mouth, the coppery scent warm on the air. Then she felt nothing at all.

~~~~~

She could not move, and she could not breathe. His weight was on top of her, and his hand was over her mouth and nose. Xhandra jerked her head to one side, then managed to bite the fleshy part of his palm. This time the blood she tasted was not her own.

Methos hit her on the side of the face with his free hand, but she did not let go. Only when his hand went around her throat and strangled her did she release her grip. Then both his hands went around her neck.

She did not want to die again! She struggled beneath him, and tried desperately to pull his hands away, but he was too strong. There was pain, and a desperate gasping for air, but after a while, she felt nothing at all.

~~~~~

Xhandra could not move, and she could not breathe. Her arms and legs were stretched apart, tied at the wrists and ankles, and there was a wad of cloth in her mouth, held tight in place by a gag. It was all she wore.

Methos was standing between her feet, looking down at her. His mouth smiled, but his eyes did not. Then he crouched down, and he touched her.

She felt everything, and she wanted to die.

~~~~~

When he had finished with her, Methos left her lying on the floor, still naked, still tied, still gagged. She closed her eyes, unwilling to face the truth, but unable to deny it or hide from it anymore. Her world was gone. All her people were dead. She had no tribe. She had no one.

Xhandra, virgin-healer dedicated to the Goddess, was dead, too. Methos had killed her body over and over again, and then he had killed her. The woman he had left lying on the floor was no one.

She was nothing.

She was his slave.

____________________________________________________

Cassandra shivered under the blanket and stared at the flame. At least Methos was dead. Connor had once asked her how long she had been a slave of the Horsemen, and she had answered simply, "Long enough."

Long enough for Methos to tame her, to train her to be his slave. And he had tamed her, as he had said he would. He killed her twice more that first day, when she resisted him that night, and when she tried to run away after he finally untied her in the morning. After the first month, she stopped trying to escape. The Horsemen always caught her, and the punishments were always brutal. She was tired of death.

After the first week, she stopped disobeying him. She was tired of pain. He was consistent and firm, a technique perfectly suited for training a dog or a horse. Or a slave. Disobedience, sullenness, anger—all met with swift punishment. It was easy for Methos to break her fingers, and since she healed immediately, she could still carry out her duties. Compliance met with approval, and even pleasure. Methos stopped raping her after the first few weeks, and started to seduce her instead. Her body responded to him first, and then—later—so did she. That made it worse in the end, of course.

Duncan was watching her, but she did not look at him. She did not want to tell Duncan about Methos. She hadn't told Connor, either. It was too humiliating.

Duncan asked, "Want something to drink? Hot chocolate?" He smiled engagingly. "Warm milk to help you get back to sleep?"

She tried to smile back and almost succeeded. "No, thank you, Duncan." She shivered again. "I don't ... want to go back to sleep."

"Bad dreams," he said in quiet understanding. "They're just dreams, Cassandra."

"Not for me." This time the shiver was a shudder, and Cassandra closed her eyes, trying not to remember, not to see.

"Shh," he said softly, and gathered her into his arms. Finally the trembling ceased, and she relaxed against him. He held her tightly for a time, then said, "Come on," and pulled her to her feet. He took her hand and led her toward the bed at the far end of the loft.

Cassandra stopped. "Duncan...."

"Sleep," he said. "Nothing more." He smiled again, that cheerful teasing grin that was playful, not taunting. "You can trust me."

She nodded and actually managed to smile. Duncan was nothing if not trustworthy. "Thank you," she whispered, and she fell asleep in Duncan's arms.

~~~~~

Later that morning, when the sun was above the horizon, they went to talk to Duncan's pet Watcher, Joe Dawson, to ask him to help them find Kronos. Dawson was disbelieving and skeptical at first, but he finally listened to Duncan. He didn't listen to her at all. Cassandra was not surprised.

They drove to Cassandra's hotel and got her things, then ate an early lunch at Duncan's loft. Duncan went downstairs to the dojo while Cassandra set up her laptop computer. She wrote messages to all five detective agencies she had been using and told them to stop looking for Kronos and send her the final bills. She did not want to think about how much it was going to cost.

Then she started to write to Connor. He had asked her to tell him where she was, to let him know how the hunt for Kronos was going, but it was not an easy letter to write. She finally settled for:  
 

——-  
_Still in Seacouver. Saw Kronos yesterday from a distance. Duncan was hunting him, too, so now we're working together to find him. C._  
——-  
  
---  
  
Connor would undoubtedly think she and Duncan were doing a lot more than working together, but she was not about either to confirm or to deny anything. What could she say? Duncan and I are just friends? Spent the night in Duncan's loft—and in his arms—but did not have sex? I never want a man to touch me that way again?

It was none of Connor's business, anyway. Cassandra sent all the e-mail messages, then turned off her computer. She brushed her hair and put on her black jacket again, then picked up her sword and tucked it into the special pocket in the folds of her skirt. That was one advantage women had over men in this culture; swords were easier to hide in skirts than they were in pants.

Cassandra took the elevator down to the dojo, and the sense of another Immortal increased as the elevator descended. Duncan was not in his office; he was standing near the weight benches and talking to a man. She gave the stranger a quick glance as she lifted the gate, evaluating him as a possible enemy. He was slouching a bit, and he looked to be little shorter than Duncan, certainly more slightly built. But his slouch was deceptively casual, and the blue jeans and the baggy brown sweater he wore under his coat did not entirely hide the whipcord strength and grace in him.

Was he an Immortal? Probably. He was looking at her with the intensity that marked such meetings. Cassandra lifted the gate completely and stepped into the dojo, then looked at him again. This time, she did not give him a quick glance. She stared, dread coiling cold in the pit of her stomach.

It was Methos.

"You?" she demanded incredulously, then kicked herself mentally for being so stupid. That had not been a simple dream last night; it had been a vision of the future, the first dream-vision she had had in centuries. She had wondered if the prophetic dreams had left her forever. But they were back, and Methos was back, too. Roland had lied to her again. Both Methos and Kronos were in Seacouver, and they were undoubtedly working together. But what was Methos doing in Duncan's dojo, and why did they seem so friendly?

"Who's this?" Methos asked MacLeod, apparently thinking he could pretend not to know her, thinking he could fool MacLeod.

Cassandra was not going to be fooled. The man standing in front of her was Death. Just as in the dream last night, the hair was shorter; the facepaint was gone; the clothes were different; but it did not matter. She would know him anywhere, in any costume, in any time. He was Methos, and she was going to kill him. The cold dread was replaced by rage. Never again would she cower in fear of him. "Draw your sword," she commanded, as she whipped out her own sword and advanced on him.

He actually stepped back from her, then moved behind the weight bench, pretending to frightened, pretending he did not know how to fight. He kept watching her as he asked Duncan again, more urgently now, "MacLeod, who is she?"

"Cassandra, what are you doing?" Duncan demanded, and he moved to block her path.

"Stay out of this, MacLeod," she warned, incensed that he would actually come between her and her prey.

Methos said, slowly and deliberately, lying again, as he always lied, "You—don't know me."

"Do you think I could ever forget you?" she snarled. She had dreamed about him just last night. "I am Methos," he had told her. "Never forget that." She never had. She never would. Cassandra borrowed a technique from Connor and let her rage go ice-cold. "You butchered my people," she said, in a flat and deadly voice. "You killed me."

"This is crazy!" he protested as he hid behind the speed-bag frame. Then he turned to Duncan and lied again. "It wasn't me, MacLeod." He still had not drawn his sword.

Cassandra did not care. He had killed her when she was unarmed and helpless, and she was going to do the same to him. Slowly. Several times. Then she would take his head. She moved closer to Methos, wishing Duncan would get out of the way.

Methos actually had the gall to ask Duncan for help. "Do something!"

Cassandra jabbed at Methos with her sword, enjoying the way he was backing away from her. She knew his pretended helplessness would not last long, but it felt good right now. "This is between you and me, Methos."

But it was not, for Duncan was there. He came from behind and wrapped his arms about her, immobilizing her. "Get out of here now!" he yelled to Methos. "Go!"

And of course, Methos did, the opportunistic, conniving little worm. He turned around and ran.

"Let go of me!" she demanded, struggling in Duncan's grasp, hating his touch, the way he was overpowering her, wishing she had never let him touch her last night. "Let go of me!"

"Only if you calm down," he said, ignoring her futile attempts to escape. "OK?"

Arrogant, interfering man! He had no right to touch her at all! She took a deep breath and nodded. It was quicker to pretend to agree than to argue. "OK." He finally let go of her, and she took off after Methos. He was not in the hallway; he was not on the stairs, and she could not sense his presence at all.

She stalked back into the dojo and confronted Duncan. "You had no right to interfere!" Didn't Duncan know the rules? Hadn't Connor taught him anything?

Duncan dismissed her objections casually. "He didn't even know you."

"He's a liar!" she exclaimed, unable to believe Duncan could be so innocent, so naive. Had he learned nothing in the last four centuries? She took a calming breath and warned Duncan icily, "Don't come between us again." She headed for the door, ready to kill.

"Cassandra," Duncan called after her, "he's my friend!"

She pivoted slowly and looked at Duncan. He was so earnest. So confused. Methos had that effect on people. Methos always lied, and Duncan needed to learn that immediately, or he would soon be dead. Methos would betray him. She said distinctly, "Your 'friend' rode with Kronos, killed and raped alongside him."

Duncan was looking even more confused now, and Cassandra continued, anger edging every word. "He _was_ one of the Horsemen." She waited a moment for that to register, then she turned on her heel and headed for the door one more time. Methos had been one of the Horsemen, and he was still one of the Horsemen, and she was going to kill him. Him and Kronos.

Duncan caught up to her before she reached the stairs and took her by the arm. "Cassandra, this is a mistake!"

She wrenched her arm from him. Blast him! He had no right to stop her, no right to touch her. She had gone to bed with him once five months ago, and he thought he owned her? Nobody owned her. "Why?" she demanded. "Because you want it to be?"

He looked uncertain and confused, but still stubborn, still ready to stop her again.

Cassandra took a deep breath and willed herself to calmness, forced herself to wait. She knew killing the two Horsemen was not going to be easy, and if Duncan kept interfering with her, it would be impossible. She didn't expect Duncan to join her, but she needed him to at least stay out of her way. She had to convince Duncan that Methos was not who he had been pretending to be.

She made her voice calm and reasonable. "Duncan, I know I seem ... irrational right now." Describing herself that way would make her seem less so.

Duncan gave a small shrug and a rueful smile at that word.

She smiled in return and admitted, "I'm upset, yes. I'm angry. But I'm not wrong. That man was—and is—Methos. He _is_ one of the Four Horsemen."

He was looking at her skeptically, still unwilling to believe.

She did not have time to argue. Perhaps another tactic would work better. "Duncan, we really don't know each other very well, and this is a hard thing to believe. Why don't you ask Connor what he thinks?"

"Connor?" he said in surprise.

"Yes," she said confidently. "Ask him about the Four Horsemen. Ask him about me." She glanced at her watch. "It's not even nine o'clock in Scotland now; he should still be awake. Call him."

He looked at her for a moment, then nodded. "All right. I will." He motioned with his head. "Come on."

She forced down her impatience and followed him back to the dojo. Duncan went into the office to use the phone, and Cassandra wandered about, looking at the weapons on the walls. She moved away from the office, not wishing to eavesdrop. Duncan's voice was a murmur now, but she could tell from the tone of his voice that he was becoming frustrated. She smiled grimly to herself; she knew how hard Connor was to talk to.

She glanced up when she heard Duncan say urgently, "She said Methos was one of the Horsemen!"

Duncan met her eyes, then turned away and spoke more quietly into the phone.

Cassandra slammed her fist into the punching bag. She knew Duncan was probably asking his former teacher if Connor thought she was wrong, or a liar, or maybe even insane. She hit the bag again, alternating her fists, a quick even rhythm. She wasn't wrong, she wasn't lying, and she wasn't insane. The Horsemen had lived over three thousand years ago, and both Methos and Kronos were still alive today.

She stopped punching the bag when she heard Duncan's voice, raised in protest, "Methos is my friend!"

His friend! She stepped back and aimed a vicious roundhouse kick at the bag. Methos had no friends, only brothers. He would do anything for his brothers, betray anyone. And he was going to betray Duncan. She knew it.

Duncan had no idea what that man had been, what he capable of, what he really was. She only hoped she could convince Duncan of the danger before it was too late. Methos had fooled Duncan into thinking that he was his friend. Methos was good at that sort of thing. She kicked the bag again, even harder this time.

Duncan came out of the office and stood in the center of the dojo, watching her.

She pivoted and gave a final satisfying back-kick to the bag, then asked him, "Well? What did Connor say?"

His face was carefully neutral as he considered her, then he said, "Connor said he'd heard of the Horsemen before you told him about them. Ramirez had mentioned them."

"Yes," Cassandra agreed, remembering the afternoon at Connor's house in Edinburgh when she and Connor had spoken of this. "Ramirez's teacher Tjanefer met two of them, a century or so after Troy fell. I don't know what happened to Tjanefer after he finished teaching Ramirez."

Duncan's expression darkened. "He took the name Graham Ashe, and he was beheaded nearly three hundred years ago."

"Ah," Cassandra said softly, but with no surprise. There were very few ancient Immortals left. When she had met Tjanefer in Troy, he had not yet been an Immortal. She had warned him of his future, knowing he was soon to die in the siege. It had not taken any of her visions to tell her that. Almost everyone in Troy was soon to die, including her. Cassandra shook her head impatiently, not wishing to remember the siege of Troy, or what had happened after. That was over; the only thing that mattered now was the Horsemen.

"So," Cassandra said impatiently, "about Methos?"

Duncan gave his familiar stubborn look. "I'm going to go talk to him."

Cassandra almost swore at him in her exasperation. Duncan was being incredibly blind; she had to make him see. "Methos is a liar, and he is very good at it. He'll just lie to you again, the way he's been lying ever since you've known him." She had no doubt that Methos had lied about what he was, or Duncan would never have considered him a friend. "He'll do things for you, pretend he cares, just to get you to trust him, but it's all a lie. I've seen him do it before."

Sudden uncertainty came into Duncan's eyes.

Cassandra wanted to say more, but she knew Duncan had to convince himself of this. She waited a moment, then she had to ask, "What did Connor say about me?"

Duncan looked at her carefully before he answered. "He said you were his friend."

She drew in a quick breath, welcoming the painful gladness that statement brought. "Yes. We're friends now." Connor had hated her for centuries, but no more. He had finally forgiven her for what she had done to him. His friendship and his forgiveness made it easier for her to continue, knowing she was likely to die. For that was what she was facing—a battle to the death. A battle with Death.

A battle she wanted to fight now. "I'm not imagining this, Duncan, and I'm not making it up. It's true." She started for the door.

"Cassandra, wait!" he called.

"I've waited too long already."

~~~~~

She had waited too long. She had not been able to find Methos. But she did find Kronos. He was in an abandoned power-station, south of Seacouver. She sat in her car and watched the building for a while, then gathered up her courage and her sword and went in.

The sensation of another Immortal crawled into her skull as she entered the main hall. Kronos's voice—that hated, mocking voice she had not heard for millennia and still remembered perfectly—echoed off the concrete walls and the metal pipes and silent machinery.

"You're late," he said. "I hope you brought his sword."

"I brought mine," she called, the hilt comfortable and comforting in her hands as she advanced on him. "It's all I need."

Kronos looked up from his desk. His hair was short now, just like Methos, and the face-paint was gone, but the scar across his right eye was still there, and the hate was still there. He smiled in lazy anticipation as he picked up his sword.

Cassandra suddenly realized where Roland had learned his smile. Kronos had taught him well. She wet her lips and kept walking toward the Horseman. She was not going to run. Not again. They circled each other at a distance, watching, judging, waiting.

"You look different somehow," he said appraisingly, as he stripped the clothes off her with his eyes. "Maybe it's because you're on your feet, instead of on your back." He smiled again, a lewd, knowing leer. "Or on your knees."

Cassandra did not respond.

"Or on your hands and knees," Kronos continued. "Or on your face in the dirt." The cheerful smile grew wider. "Do you remember, Cassandra?" His wet his lips, but not in nervousness. "I do," he confided.

"Do you remember the last time I knelt at your feet, Kronos?" she countered. "In your tent?"

**____________________________________________________**

**The Bronze Age**  
**The Horsemen's Camp**  
**____________________________________________________**

It was evening now, and the inside of the tent was dim, lit only by the red flickers from the fire in the brazier. It had been mid-day when Kronos had dragged her into his tent, a lifetime ago. Many lifetimes ago. She couldn't remember how many times he had killed her, how many different ways she had died.

"No more!" she begged, as Kronos yanked her to feet yet again. "No more!" she said, finally willing to cooperate instead of merely surrendering. It didn't matter anymore. "Please, don't hurt me."

He smiled then, pleased at her total submission, and he let go of her wrists.

She slowly went to her knees before him, using her mouth and her hands to touch him in the ways that Methos had taught her, hoping to please this new master as she had pleased the old.

Kronos sighed in satisfaction and tilted his head back, his eyes closed. "Maybe I won't give you to Caspian after all."

She forced herself not to tremble. She had seen what Caspian did to his slaves. And Kronos would share her with his brothers eventually. She knew that.

Unless she ran away.

She could not control her trembling now, as she remembered the brutal punishments from before. But what were her choices? The slim chance for freedom now? Or Kronos, then Caspian, then Silas, then probably Kronos again? Over and over again, forever. Methos did not want her anymore; today had made that very clear.

She could not bear to stay here, to see Methos from a distance every day, to remember.

Kronos still had his eyes closed, and she made her choice. The broad-bladed knife lay on his pallet, dark-wet with her blood. She had never killed anyone before, but it should be no different, really, than butchering a goat, and she had done that many times. She picked up the blade and drove it straight up into his groin, twisting the knife in the wound before she backed away, his blood spilling over her hand.

He shuddered and fell, gasping with pain and surprise. She shuddered, too, with revulsion and fear. But there was one difference between butchering goats and killing Kronos. She felt sorry for the goats.

She did not wait to watch him die, but ran out into the night, pursued by his final agonized cry of rage.  
____________________________________________________  
 

"That's what I remember," Cassandra said, stepping carefully on the uneven floor of the power station. It was her turn to smile now.

Kronos nodded slowly, as anger edged out the ugly glee in his eyes. "I remember, too." Then he smiled once more. "Did you come here for me?" he asked. "I'm afraid Methos is busy. He's out killing MacLeod."

That was no surprise, but there was nothing she could do about it now. Cassandra kept her gaze on Kronos, evaluating his stance and his reach. He was certainly stronger than she was, but not much taller. She hoped he was not as quick.

"Let's see if you've learned anything in the last three thousand years," he challenged her.

She had learned a great deal—about herself, about others, and about the Voice. She had him registered now. "You're weak, Kronos," she said, using the power of the Voice to amplify her suggestion. "Tired." She used a firm command tone with him, knowing that Kronos responded best to strength. "All you want to do is close your eyes." He had not reacted to her words at all, and she repeated with more control, "You have to close your eyes."

"Why?" he asked, still grinning. "So you can kiss me?"

He should have at least blinked. Cassandra forced down her growing dismay and tried again. "Your sword grows heavy."

Kronos's sword did not waver. "Make love to me before I kill you," he said softly, staring into her eyes.

Cassandra froze where she stood, her palms suddenly slick with icy sweat. Those had been Roland's words. No! Roland was dead, and no one would ever do that to her again. She forced herself to start moving again, to stay focused, to stay alive.

Kronos smiled in triumph. He had seen her hesitation, and he knew why. Kronos had taught Roland well, and the student had reported to the master. Kronos waved his sword airily, a casual gesture of dismissal. "And cut out the feeble tricks. They won't work on me."

Cassandra's hands were still damp, and more sweat trickled down her sides, bringing with it the sour raw smell of her fear. The student and the teacher had traded places, at least for a while. Roland had taught Kronos to resist the Voice. Cassandra had no weapons against Kronos but her sword. It would have to do.

She swallowed the metallic taste in her mouth and summoned her strength and her rage, then she lifted her sword and attacked. "Maybe this will!"

It didn't. She got in maybe six blows, three of them defensive, before he disarmed her, a quick twist of his sword that sent her weapon clattering down to the floor far below. She backed up along the metal gangplank, her mouth totally dry now.

Kronos was still smiling as he stalked her. "Methos never liked the idea of killing you. But I do."

Kronos had always been the most straightforward of the brothers. Both Methos and Silas had liked to play with their pets. Caspian had liked to eat his. Cassandra stepped backwards past a valve, then gave it a quick turn, releasing a sudden blast of steam. It wasn't much of a distraction, but it was enough. She turned and ran, heading for the ladder, hoping to find her sword down below.

Kronos yelled after her, "You, witch!"

That had been Roland's name for her. Cassandra reached the bottom of the ladder, and took a few quiet steps. The headache that signaled the approach of an Immortal started again, and she turned, wondering how. Had Kronos gone out of range? But she could still hear him, calling for her on the floor above.

"You're dead!" Kronos shouted. "Come out now, and I'll make it quick."

Cassandra turned again, and Methos was there, right in front of her. There was a sudden blinding pain, and then the world went black.

~~~~~

She drifted back to consciousness, her nausea intensified by a headache and an unpleasant jogging motion, and the long-remembered scent of the man who was holding her in his arms. She could not move, and she could not breathe. Then the world went black again, and she welcomed the oblivion.

Cassandra came back to awareness; her Immortal healing giving her only a few minutes respite from the nightmare. Methos was still there, still touching her, but he wasn't walking now. She shuddered, but could not summon the strength to try to escape. She glanced about cautiously and saw that they were on a bridge.

He shifted his hold on her, and she realized with dim surprise he was going to throw her into the water. Cassandra looked up at him, as she had so many times before, but now she looked at him with hate, instead of submission or fear. "You should have killed me when you had the chance," she told him, but he made no reply. He didn't even look at her.

It was a long way down to the river, but the water still came fast and hit hard. She passed out again and nearly drowned, then managed to struggle to the surface for air. It took her nearly ten minutes to swim to the shore.

She huddled on the rough gravel of the riverbank in her wet clothes, shivering in the chill afternoon breeze. The wail of sirens came from across the river, and she watched as the firefighters arrived to battle the blaze in the power-station. The police were there, too, but she saw no sign of Kronos or Methos.

Maybe they were burning to death, slowly and painfully. She hoped so, but she doubted it. They were both too smart for that. She walked over the bridge to get back to her car, then drove to Duncan's loft, hoping he would be home.

He was not. Maybe Methos had already taken his head. Cassandra shoved that thought away and went to take a shower. She scrubbed quickly but thoroughly, removing the smells of fish and oil from her hair and skin. She was still shivering, so she dressed in her warmest clothes, a thick black sweater over a white shirt, leggings under her jeans, then wrapped herself in a blanket on the couch with a steaming mug of coffee in her hands. Only then did she allow herself to think of what had happened.

Methos had set out to kill Duncan, and Duncan had said he was going to talk to Methos. Had they met? Or were they still looking for each other? If Duncan was dead, then she would continue on alone. If Duncan were still alive, she had no idea where to start looking for him. She would wait for him here, at least for a few more minutes.

She had faced Kronos. She had challenged him to battle and actually stood up to him. And it had been worse than she had feared. He was immune to the Voice, and she had lost immediately. She had even lost her sword! There was no way she could get it back from the power-station now, not with that fire. She was truly weaponless.

Then Methos had shown up. Kronos had wanted to kill her, but Methos didn't think she was even worth the effort. He had simply tossed her off the bridge. Maybe he had been in a hurry to go kill Duncan, and was simply planning on chasing her down later. He liked to hunt. It kept him amused.

Cassandra shivered and drank the rest of her coffee, then started packing her things. She needed to leave the loft now. Methos undoubtedly knew Duncan lived above the dojo, and she couldn't wait any longer for Duncan to come back. She was heading for the door when the sense of an Immortal crawled up her spine, and the elevator clanked and groaned. Perhaps the noise was Duncan's version of an alarm system. Cassandra hid in the shadows near the open window, ready to go out the fire escape if it were Methos or Kronos. Or both.

But it was Duncan, his clothing torn, his hair disarrayed, bringing with him the scents of oil and smoke. Cassandra closed her eyes in relief and joy.

"I didn't think you were still alive," he said, as he came toward her, voicing her own fears.

"I'm here," she said, reaching out to him, taking comfort in the solid warmth of touch. Methos hadn't killed him, but Duncan had obviously been fighting. "You found Kronos?"

"Yeah. I followed you to the power station, and Kronos and I fought."

"He's dead?" she asked, hoping—praying—it was true.

Duncan shook his head.

She stepped away from him, nodding. Of course Kronos was not dead. Her enemies would come back again and again, and she would never be free of them. "Then, I failed." Why should she be surprised? She always failed.

"You didn't fail," Duncan said, coming over to her. "You're still alive."

"So are they." Both of them. Kronos had been bad enough, but Methos, too! "It'll never be over," she vowed, "until they're both dead." Or until she was.

Duncan turned her to face him and held her close. His body was warm, but his voice was like ice. "Then we'll find them."

Cassandra slowly realized what he had said. "Duncan," she protested, pulling back to look at him, "I know we both want Kronos, but fighting Methos is my battle. Not yours."

"It's mine now." Duncan's eyes were cold, too, as he gave her a short, quick nod. "Methos was there at the power station."

Cassandra nodded, but did not offer any more information. She didn't know what game Methos was playing, but she wasn't going to be a part of it. Duncan didn't need to know that Methos had tossed her into the river like yesterday's garbage.

"I saw him give Kronos a ride after the fire started." Duncan's voice was flat, but his rage and disbelief were palpable. "You were right about him, Cassandra. Methos was...."

"Death," Cassandra finished for him, then she held Duncan close again. She had seen the hurt behind the anger, the pain that came with the hate. Methos had lied to Duncan and betrayed him, and she knew exactly how Duncan felt.

After a moment, she said to him, "We need to leave. They know where you live."

"Yeah," he agreed grimly. "They do." He quickly packed a small suitcase, and they headed for the elevator. His hand was on the gate when he asked her, "Where's your sword?"

Cassandra grimaced in embarrassment. "Kronos disarmed me," she said simply.

He frowned slightly and looked her over, then said, "Just a minute." He went to a closet and came back with a long slim case. There were at least ten such cases in the closet.

"Do you usually keep so many extra swords in the house?" she asked.

Duncan shrugged as he set the case on kitchen counter. "I used to be an antique dealer."

And there were other ways to acquire swords. Cassandra didn't want to know how many had been bought with money, and how many had been bought with blood. "Did you work with Connor?" she asked, wondering how two Highland barbarians had both decided to learn about the finer points of eighteenth century silver and tapestries.

"About a hundred and sixty years ago, in London," Duncan answered as he opened the case and took out the weapon, a shortened broadsword with a jeweled handle. "I think this will suit you," he said, then unsheathed the blade and held it out for her inspection. "Try it before we leave."

Cassandra did not reach for it. "How much do I owe you?"

"Nothing."

"How much?" She had accepted too much from him already.

Duncan shrugged. "It didn't cost me anything."

Cassandra knew better. "Not even blood?" she asked sharply. "Pain?"

He winced, then lowered the sword.

"How much?" she demanded. "How much could you sell this for?"

"About five thousand dollars," he admitted finally. "Look, Cassandra, why don't you just use it for now, and then give it back to me when you get another sword? Think of it as a loan."

"A loan." A gift with strings. Cassandra shook her head.

"A loan," Duncan repeated evenly. "And I won't even charge interest," he added, smiling, trying to make her smile, too. It did not work. "Use it to defeat the Horsemen," Duncan said, "and I'll consider myself well paid." When she continued to hesitate, he said patiently, "You need a sword now. Tonight."

He was right. Swords weren't all that easy to find, and they needed to leave. "All right," Cassandra finally agreed. "A loan, until the Horsemen are defeated." She would give it back to him then. If she were still alive.

He nodded, then presented the sword to her formally, the blade lying flat against his palms, a faint smile on his face. "Your weapon."

She had said the same to him once, many years ago, in just this way. She smiled in return and bowed slightly, then took the sword from Duncan's hands. She stepped back and held it high to the light. Her reflection shimmered in the polished metal, a blurred miniature version of her face, tattooed by the patterning on the blade. Cassandra did a few lunges, a few practice moves. Duncan had a good eye. It was just the right size for her. She nodded to him, then sheathed the sword and closed the case. She picked up her bag again, ready to go. She hated swords.

~~~~~

She hated waiting. Kronos and Methos disappeared after the fight at the power-station, and she and Duncan had no idea where the Horsemen had gone. Dawson didn't know, either. Cassandra was thoroughly irritated with this whole Watcher nonsense. What was the point of Watchers if they didn't watch? She had a Watcher. Duncan had a Watcher. But did Kronos have a Watcher? Did Methos have a Watcher? Oh, no! The Watchers never knew what you needed them to know.

Methos was too devious to have a Watcher. In fact, he was a Watcher. That was hardly a surprise, for he had started the Watchers, even before he had started the Horsemen. She wondered if Methos had told Roland where she was over the centuries, if Methos had helped Roland track her down again and again. Probably. Methos had done it the first time.

Cassandra and Duncan sparred in the mornings in the dojo, and spent the rest of the entire weekend searching Seacouver, going to abandoned warehouses and madhouses and lighthouses, to forlorn amusement parks and deserted train stations and more unused power plants. They searched for some clue, some connection, something. Anything.

Nothing.

"Where could they have gone?" Duncan asked in frustration, pacing back and forth in the living room of Methos's apartment. They had watched the building for a short time this afternoon, then Cassandra had used the Voice to ask the building manager for the key to the apartment, and to ask the neighbors for information. No one had seen Methos since at least last Thursday. Or had it been Friday?

The apartment was sparsely neat. Just some clothes and some books left behind, and a copy of TV Guide on the television. There was beer in the refrigerator, and a half-empty box of take-out pizza. He might have left for a long weekend, a holiday. A rampage. A rape.

"They could have gone anywhere," Cassandra answered, staring out the window to the parking lot below. The Horsemen had the whole world to choose from. What could have induced them to leave Seacouver so quickly, to run from a fight? She turned and said softly, "But more importantly, why did they go?"

At Duncan's puzzled look, she added, "For a long time, I thought all of the Horsemen were dead. But Kronos wasn't dead, and Methos wasn't dead." She let Duncan state the conclusion; it would make him feel good.

Duncan was nodding grimly. "And the other two aren't dead, either, and Methos was a Watcher. He knows where to find them. They're reuniting the Horsemen."

Cassandra shuddered at his words, imagining all four of those men together again.

"Come on," Duncan said quickly. "We're going to Joe's."

But Joe was not at the bar, or at his home. They had to wait even longer. Cassandra paced in the hotel room, unable to sit. "I'm going running," she said abruptly. She ran through the streets to the park, wanting to feel the earth beneath her feet and see the trees overhead. The autumn day was overcast and chill, and a slight drizzle was falling. It reminded her of Scotland, except this part of the city was too flat. She wanted to run hills. She wanted to run and not think and not remember and not feel, and then run some more.

She could not continue this way much longer, with her memories and her dreams. Even with Duncan there to comfort her afterwards, she could not stand many more dreams.

She ran faster, the damp leaves swirled by autumn breezes into brief flurries, her footsteps firm upon the ground. When the Horsemen were dead, the dreams would stop. When they were dead, she could sleep. When they were dead, she would be free. When they were dead, it would all be over.

Outside the hotel, Cassandra finally stopped running, then bent slightly at the knees, breathing deeply, trying to calm herself before she went to their room. Maybe Dawson was back, maybe now they could find the Horsemen. She stretched again, then climbed the stairs to Duncan.

~~~~~

Dawson had returned from his weekly meeting with his beer supplier, and with his help Duncan and she did indeed find the Horsemen, or at least one of them. Cassandra recognized Caspian's photo in the Watcher database. He was using the name Evan Caspari, and he was in an asylum for the criminally insane near the city of Bucharest. An asylum was a good place for him, for all of the Horsemen. A cemetery would be even better.

Cassandra and Duncan left immediately on a flight for Bucharest, only to find that Kronos and Methos had already been there. Caspian was gone. But the cell was not completely empty. Duncan found a matchbook on the floor, imprinted with the name of a hotel in Bordeaux. "Methos must have left it for us," he said, over Cassandra's protests. "Come on."

~~~~~

She was still protesting after they boarded the airplane on their way to Bordeaux. "Why do you think Methos wants us to follow him, Duncan?"

"Maybe he needs our help," Duncan said, trying to find room for his long legs in the small space between the seats.

"Help? Against his brothers?" Cassandra shook her head. "He'd never do that."

"Cassandra, you told me what he was," Duncan replied. "Even he told me what he was. But he's changed. He's been a good friend, to me and to others. And he was more than a friend to Alexa."

"Who?" Cassandra asked.

"Alexa. She worked in Joe's bar, and she was dying of cancer. Methos took her on a tour of the world, took her places she'd always wanted to see." Duncan said softly, "He loved her, Cassandra, and he made her last months happy ones."

Cassandra tossed her hair back from her face, then stared out the small window at the sea of white clouds below. Pretending to care was something else Methos was good at. It was part of the way he tamed women.

"He's not a Horseman anymore," Duncan insisted.

"You'd stake your life on that?" she asked, turning back to him. "Because that's exactly what you're doing. Trusting him with your life."

"I've trusted him with my life before."

So had she.

Duncan fiddled with his seat belt, then said quietly, "And he's saved my life, too. I wouldn't have come out of the Dark Quickening if it hadn't been for Methos."

Cassandra waited, knowing he would talk more if she simply listened.

Duncan did not look at her. "He helped me ... find myself again. He brought me my father's sword, took me to a sacred spring in a cave. It was like fighting myself, another half of myself." Duncan closed his eyes briefly at the memory, then admitted, "But when Methos first came to help me, I almost took his head." His voice became quieter still, barely audible over the drone of the engines. "Like I took Sean's."

Cassandra reached over and took Duncan's hand in her own. Sean Burns had been an psychologist, a kind, good, caring man. And a very, very rare kind of Immortal. He and Duncan had been friends for centuries. "It was the Darkness in you, Duncan," she tried to reassure him. "Not you."

"It's still there," he said, holding tight to her hand. "Still part of me. And I can still hear their voices. Even now."

"Don't you always?" Cassandra asked in surprise.

"No," Duncan answered, surprised himself, looking at her. "Not after a day or two. You do?"

"Always," she said, then whispered, "Even now."

"How long has it been?" he asked, curiosity and concern overcoming Immortal rules of politeness.

"Since I took a head?" Cassandra forced her voice to lighten. "About fifteen hundred years."

Duncan could only blink.

Cassandra added casually, "After a while, I hear them only at night, or when I'm tired. The last one was less than a hundred years old, and she took about twenty years to be quiet."

There was silence, until Duncan asked her the question she did not want to hear. "How long do you think it's going to take for Kronos to be quiet?"

It was her turn to look away, and she pulled her hand from his.

"Cassandra," Duncan said, clearly worried for her, "he's older than you are, maybe almost four thousand years old. If you take his head, you'll go insane."

"Maybe," she admitted, wondering if she would be able to tell the difference. Kronos was already in her dreams. Would it matter if she heard his voice when she was awake, too? But it would. If she did go insane, if she became like Kronos, or like Roland.... She could not let that happen. "Duncan, if ... I do go insane, would you take my head?"

"Cassandra!" Duncan protested.

She had to make him see. "You know about the Voice; you know what I could do with it."

He nodded slowly, obviously remembering what Roland had done with it.

"And you know how to stop me," she said. "Promise me, Duncan. Promise me you'll take my head if that happens." He hesitated, and she took his hands in hers. "Promise me," she insisted. "I don't want to hurt people like that."

"A dark quickening," Duncan murmured. "Yeah. I know. I will."

"Thank you," she said softly, then let go of his hands and leaned back against the seat, closing her eyes. She would have to ask Connor to take her head, too, in case Duncan couldn't. In case Duncan were dead.

Duncan's voice broke that thought. "Cassandra, about Kronos...."

She didn't even bother to open her eyes. "He has to die."

"And Methos?"

Always Methos. Cassandra sighed and turned to look at Duncan. "After the things he's done, he deserves —"

"We've all done things," Duncan interrupted. "Things we wish we hadn't done. Things other people could condemn us for. Things we wish we could change, and can't. I know I have. And so has Connor, and Amanda, and Darius. And Methos."

He didn't need to say it. The hard challenge of his stare was enough.

Cassandra nodded, an abrupt forced motion. And so had she.

Duncan said, "We just ... have to go with our lives."

"Methos _killed_ my father, Duncan," she retorted. "My father was unarmed and defenseless, and Methos cut him down where he stood. Would you forgive that? Let the man who killed your father 'just go on with his life'?"

Duncan opened his mouth, then shut it. "Cassandra...," he began, then sighed and shook his head. "Revenge isn't the answer. It won't bring your father back."

"It isn't just revenge," she insisted. She wouldn't waste her time with that. It was preventive maintenance, like spraying for termite infestation. "They have to be stopped before they hurt anyone else."

"But if they've already stopped?" he asked. "If someone has changed, Cassandra, there has to be room for forgiveness. Otherwise, there's no end to the hate."

She looked away once more, hearing the truth of his words. Connor had forgiven her, and she had—in some fashion—forgiven Roland. If Methos had changed, then maybe....

Duncan said again, "Methos isn't a Horseman anymore, Cassandra."

"Maybe he hasn't been a Horsemen for a very long time," she acknowledged. "Maybe he has changed. But he's with Kronos and Caspian now, and probably Silas."

It was her turn to challenge Duncan with a hard stare. "Maybe he's changing back."

* * *

 

They landed in Paris and took another flight to Bordeaux, arriving in the late afternoon. It was a beautiful autumn day of blue sky and cool breezes. Duncan and Cassandra went to the elegant and expensive Hotel de Seze, but there was no message from Methos. They checked into the hotel, taking a room on the second floor.

"I need to go running," she said, after they had settled in. "We've done nothing but sit on airplanes for three days."

"Good idea," Duncan agreed. "We should go together."

They ran for eight kilometers along the side of the river. On the way back to the hotel, they went through a park with a Ferris wheel and an ornate fountain of mounted horses. Mothers pushed strollers; a pair of nuns in gray habits kept watch over a group of schoolchildren. Duncan stopped running to toss a ball back to a boy of perhaps ten years. "Eh, attrapes!" he called, and the boy caught the ball and smiled, then ran off to join his friends.

"You like children," Cassandra observed, for Duncan's answering smile lingered as he watched the boys play.

"Sure," he said, in some surprise. "Kids are great."

Cassandra knew that not everyone thought so. Roland had hated children. Silas liked to play with them sometimes, but the other Horsemen merely exterminated children if they were bothersome in any way, as if they were flies to be swatted. Once Methos had stopped raping her to slaughter a three-day old infant who was crying. The baby's mother, a brand-new slave, had protested. Methos had killed her, too. Then, spattered with their blood, he had come back to Cassandra and finished the rape.

Children never lived long in the Horsemen's camp. Of course, that was not unusual. Children were always among the first to die when slaves were taken.

She and Duncan walked together through the park, the graveled sand on the pathway rough underfoot. "Did you ever raise a child?" she asked, wondering what Duncan was really like, what he wanted, what he dreamed. They had been in each other's company almost constantly this last week, but there were still many things about him she did not know.

"Now and again, through the years. But never from the beginning." He stopped and leaned on the edge of the fountain, staring into the pool. "And never through to the end." The spray from the fountain misted his hair and his face, and he was silent again.

Cassandra knew why. "It's a hard thing," she said, "to have to leave them, or to see them die." The ripples on the water mingled and spread, then died away, even as new ripples came to take their place in an endless flow and ebb. All of the children she had raised were dead, even the Immortal ones. "Did you ever marry?"

"No." The word carried with it the memory of missed chances and forgotten hopes, and the knowledge of futility and loss.

Cassandra wondered which of the two MacLeods was more lonely—Duncan, with his many different lovers down through the years, or Connor, who loved seldom but long.

"How about you?" he asked. "Have you ever married?"

"Four times. The first three when I was young. Well," she amended, smiling at him as she turned around and leaned her back against the fountain wall, "about your age." Cassandra watched a couple as they strolled along hand-in-hand, the man's dark head bent to the woman's, laughter in their eyes. "It got ... harder, to marry mortals, to commit...." The couple sat down on a bench and kissed, and Cassandra turned away and looked into the pool again. "My last husband was Ramirez, Connor's teacher."

Duncan nodded. "Connor told me that Ramirez introduced you to him. Was it easier, marrying one of us?"

"In a way. We didn't have to pretend with each other, or be so careful about what we said. And we didn't have to feel ... guilty about living on while the other grew old." She leaned forward into the fountain and reached for a floating leaf, but the current carried it along. "It was easier, but it wasn't as intense." She shrugged. "But after all, it was an arranged marriage. We decided it was better to marry than to be arrested for fornication."

"Those were the days," Duncan commented ruefully, then asked, "Have you adopted children?"

"Oh, yes," Cassandra said. "Many times." From the beginning, to the end. "But not lately."

Duncan straightened and turned from the fountain. "Connor's really excited about the twins."

"He always did want children," Cassandra agreed. Connor's wife Alex was pregnant by artificial insemination, a modern-day option. "I called Alex a few weeks ago, and she said it wouldn't be long now. She's hoping to carry them for another eight weeks, perhaps." Not that Cassandra was likely to ever see the children, unless by some miracle she survived the Horsemen.

"You called Alex?" Duncan asked, doing a very poor job of hiding his curiosity. "You know her?"

"Yes," Cassandra said. "We spent some time together this summer, in Edinburgh." She took pity on Duncan's obvious interest and added, "Connor was helping me with my swordfighting." He had helped her with a lot of things.

A casual nod was Duncan's only response, but his speculative look and his silence were not casual at all. Duncan was very curious about her relationship with Connor. And why not? It was a very curious relationship. It was also a private one. "Let's go back to the hotel," she said. "I'm hungry."

 

The next morning they practiced sword-fighting at a fencing club, then waited for Methos to contact them. They ate lunch and waited some more. "I'm going running," Cassandra announced near midafternoon, when she could bear the waiting no longer, and Duncan went with her again.

"You're a good runner," Duncan commented when they finished. They stopped in front of the hotel, then went to the grassy strip under the trees alongside the street. Duncan did a few deep knee-bends, then sat on the grass and reached for his ankles. "Did Connor ever make you go running with him?"

"Make me?" she repeated, leaning against a tree to stretch her calves. That was an odd way to put it. "No, why? Did he make you?"

Duncan snorted. "Oh, yeah. When it was just part of training, it wasn't bad, but sometimes he decided to teach me a lesson. Then we would run. And run. And run. There was one summer— I think it was 1630 or so—when we ran like that almost every week." He shook his head at the memory and massaged his left calf. "Connor likes to run."

Cassandra had seen Connor that year, on a spring afternoon in Aberdeen. Connor had told her he would kill her if she ever came near him again. "No, Connor never made me run," she said, as she joined Duncan on the grass. "But then, he wasn't my teacher. I was his."

"Were you?" Duncan shot her a measuring glance at that piece of information. After a moment, he said, "Connor still challenges me to go running every once in a while, though." He watched her closely as he worked on his other calf. "When he's angry at me about something."

Cassandra kept her head down as she stretched and reached for her toes. Connor had other, less pleasant, ways of showing his anger with her.

"I went to see him this summer," Duncan said, done with stretching, done with trying to find out more, at least for now. "Like you suggested."

"And did he make you go running then?"

"All afternoon." He shrugged, his rueful grin fading. "You were right. I needed to tell him. About the Dark Quickening. About ... Sean Burns, and what I...." Duncan stopped, then picked up a pebble that was lying at the base of the tree and tossed it from hand to hand. "I think he was actually angrier at me for not telling him, than he was about what happened."

A cold breeze gusted down the street, and Cassandra shivered. Connor did not like the people he trusted to keep secrets from him.

"It'll be dark soon," Duncan said, standing and throwing the pebble back to the tree. "We should go in."

"Inter canem et lupum," murmured Cassandra, as she rose and stood beside him, looking into the gathering dusk.

"Between dog and wolf?" Duncan asked, translating the words, but not understanding the meaning.

"A Roman idiom," she explained. "It's the time of day when, from a distance, you can't tell the difference between a dog—or a wolf."

~~~~~

While she was taking her shower, she decided to try to convince Duncan again. Methos was a wolf, no matter what he looked like, no matter what Duncan thought. Cassandra wished Connor were here to talk some sense into his former student. Duncan certainly hadn't been listening to her.

She wrapped her wet hair in a towel and put on a bathrobe, then went into their room to get her clothes. Duncan was sitting in a chair, staring out the French doors that led to the balcony.

Cassandra decided to be blunt. If it came down to a fight between him and Methos, then Duncan needed to realize just how dangerous Methos was. "Will you kill him, Duncan?" she asked, as she sat on the edge of the bed and rummaged through her suitcase for her hairbrush. "Can you kill him?"

Duncan wouldn't even look at her. "If I have to."

Her answer was certain and grim. "You will." And if Duncan didn't, she would, if she ever got the chance.

He leaned forward, all earnestness and hope. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe he's trying to help us?"

She could not believe he had survived so long. Earnestness and hope were appealing qualities in a child, but this was ridiculous, and so was his continued faith in Methos. "No."

The phone rang, and Duncan got up to answer it, while Cassandra sat in front of the mirror and started to brush her hair. "Hello?" Duncan said into the phone, then added quickly, "I'll be right down."

"Was that him?" she asked, watching him in the mirror.

"No, something wrong with my credit card. I'll be right back," he called as he headed for the door.

That was hardly a surprise, the way they had been charging things these last few days. Two of her cards were already charged to the limit. Hunting and running used to depend on who had the most sail or the fastest horse or camel. Now it was who had the most credit cards.

If she survived this, she was going to apply for an American Express card.

Cassandra jerked the brush through her hair. This waiting for Methos was stupid. They should start looking, or call Dawson and see what the Watchers knew. But Duncan wanted to wait. Duncan was sure Methos was his "friend."

She slammed the brush down on the table, remembering her words to Methos when he had dumped her off the bridge: "You should have killed me when you had the chance." She hadn't even been worth killing to him. She hadn't been worth anything. Ever.

Cassandra knocked the chair over as she stood, then started to pace. She wanted to kill Methos, slowly, and with a great deal of pain. But she would have to settle for slamming her fists into the side of the wardrobe. She couldn't break it, and no one would hear.

Cassandra settled into an even, comfortable rhythm, the ache in her hands slowly intensifying as she punched the wood over and over again. She should have killed Methos when she had the chance, that very first day. She shouldn't have stopped to talk to Duncan in the dojo. She should have gone after Methos right then. She should have tracked him down and killed him. Then Kronos would never have found Caspian, and the Horsemen wouldn't be back together. And if Kronos had been by himself, then she could have —

She slammed both fists into the wardrobe and stopped, leaning her forehead against the side.

"Face facts, woman," she muttered to herself. "You couldn't, and you didn't." Kronos _had_ been by himself, and she hadn't had a chance against him. Her only chance had been using the Voice, but Roland had taught Kronos to resist the Voice, just as she had taught Connor. She didn't doubt that Roland had taught the other three Horsemen as well. After all, they were brothers. They shared everything—and everyone.

She didn't want to think about that. Cassandra yanked the bathrobe off and threw it on the floor, then dressed. She picked up her sword and paced back and forth, wishing she could start hunting right now. But Duncan had said he would be back soon, and she should wait here for him. She lay on the bed and closed her eyes, trying to relax.

~~~~~

"What are you doing, Cassandra?" His voice came from behind her, very close.

She froze, dread slithering from her stomach to coil in her arms and legs, her hands clenching tight to the hilt of her sword. She did not turn around. "I was just—"

"Going somewhere?" Methos's voice was smooth next to her ear.

"No!" she protested, standing very still as he moved to her other side. She could feel the warmth from him against her back, the faint breeze from his breath against her cheek and hair.

"Don't lie to me, Cassandra." It was Connor's voice now. His arm came up around her, and his hand lay lightly on her collarbone. "You know I don't like it when you lie." His fingers slid up her throat and tightened a fraction.

"No more lies," she agreed immediately, hoping to please him. "Ever." But Connor was gone and Roland was there, and the hand tightened even more.

"Don't trust her, Little Brother." It was the voice of Kronos, amused and skeptical, behind her on the other side. "Don't ever trust a woman. Look at what she did to me." He was in front of her now, his face swirled in black designs, a bloody knife in his hand. "Remember this?" he asked, holding it close to her eyes, a lazy, anticipatory smile stretching his mouth. He moved the knife lower until it lay against her throat, right above Roland's hand, then he leaned forward and touched his lips to hers. "You owe me," he whispered against her mouth, and pressed on the knife until it drew her blood.

Kronos moved back and wiped the knife on his clothes, then said cheerfully, "Isn't that right, Brother?"

"Right," came the drawling, mocking voice, and now Death was there again, the shadows darkening the blue half of his face to black. "She owes us all." He moved closer, and shook his head in sorrow. "You shouldn't have left."

Roland's whisper came harsh in her ear. "I told you not to leave."

"I didn't—"

Roland's hand tightened, and she could not breathe.

"Haven't you tamed her yet, Little Brother?" Death asked. "I can show you how." Now his face was the face of a skull.

"Take this, Brother," Kronos said, holding out the knife. "She deserves it." There was blood on the blade again.

"No," she said. She knew she did not deserve this. Now Roland was in front of her, flanked by the two Horsemen. All of them were smiling. Silas and Caspian were there, too, holding her arms tight behind her back. Her sword was gone. "No...."

Roland stood in front of her. "We can do this as many times as it takes to tame you, Cassandra. Submit." He smiled. "Tell me you deserve it."

"No." It had not been her fault. She had done nothing wrong.

Kronos hit her from the side, a slap that would have knocked her to the ground if Caspian and Silas hadn't held on to her. "Submit."

The side of her face went numb, but that faded soon enough to heat and pain. She spit out the blood in her mouth. "No."

Death changed again, the skull fading to reveal the modern Methos, his face unpainted, his hair short. He was smiling slightly, his eyes faintly amused. Methos took the knife from Kronos and stabbed her once through the heart, then smiled at her as she crumpled to the ground.

Silas and Caspian were still there, each holding one ankle. Methos held her wrists. Kronos asked happily, "We share everything, don't we, Brothers? Who wants to go first?"

Roland's weight was on top of her, his eyes very close. "You owe me, Cassandra. Submit. Tell me you deserve it. Tell me," he repeated, his hands around her throat. He did not use the Voice. "Tell me you're sorry you left me."

She looked into the eyes of her son, the little boy who had trusted her, the child she had failed to protect. The eyes of a lost, lonely, frightened, little boy. "Yes," she said, admitting her guilt. "I'm sorry."

He smiled at her, a smile of love and trust and happiness, and then he started to squeeze.

~~~~~

Cassandra woke suddenly, unable to move or to breathe. She kept her eyes closed and tried to relax her arms and legs. Her heart pounded painfully against her ribs, and she took a first cautious breath. She was on the bed, in the hotel in Bordeaux, and her sword was by her side. There was no one else in the room.

She opened her eyes slowly. It was dark outside now, and the room was dim, so she reached over and turned on the bedside lamp, blinking at the sudden brightness, still trying to control her breathing. She hadn't had that dream before, not in quite that way. She hoped she never had it again. It was definitely one of the more unpleasant ones.

She sat up a little, and reached for a magazine, hoping to find something else to think about. Then she blinked again at the pain in the back of her head. Another Immortal was near. Cassandra stood shakily, heading for the door. It must be Duncan, finally done fixing his credit card. "Duncan, what took you so long?" she asked as she opened the door, needing to feel his arms around her right now.

But it was not Duncan.

It was Silas, shoving the door open when she tried to slam it shut. And it was not just Silas. Kronos and Caspian were there, too, and all of them were smiling.

She fell back in dismay, her hands at her sides, cursing her stupidity and her carelessness. One bad dream, and she forgot every single thing she knew. She should have run immediately, gone out the window. What an idiot she was!

Kronos advanced on her, smiling still. "I'm afraid—Duncan—is otherwise engaged." His voice lingered on the name, giving it a evil, mocking twist.

What did he mean by that? Had they already killed him? Or was Methos killing him now? Had the Horsemen been waiting for Duncan at the hotel desk? Cassandra took another step backwards, moving slightly sideways, trying to edge closer to the bed and to her sword. She could not use the Voice on Kronos, and she probably wouldn't have any chance against the three of them, but at least she could try.

Kronos tilted his head and asked engagingly, "Am I wrong? Don't I owe you something?"

She swallowed in a dry throat. She owed him. No. That had been the dream. That was not real. She owed him nothing. She was not going to be tame.

Now Kronos was in front of her, flanked by the other two Horsemen. Kronos said, "Too bad you didn't know you had to take my head to kill me."

"I'll take it now," she said fiercely and leapt for her sword on the bed.

Caspian got there first. He flung himself on top of her sword, then grinned as he stood with the blade in his hand.

Cassandra cursed silently again and retreated, but she had nowhere to go. There were three of them, all bigger, all stronger, all skilled fighters. All men. What were her chances? Realistically—zero. She swallowed, dreading what she knew was coming. Her best plan now was to appear to give them what they wanted, to minimize the pain, to get it over faster. It was not total submission; it was a strategic retreat. She knew how to do that. She had done it before.

Cassandra allowed her terror to show. The Horsemen liked to see that; they thrived on others' fear. She knew that if she tried to hide her terror, they would simply become more and more violent until they broke through her defenses. It was better to seem to surrender immediately, to let them think they had broken her.

Kronos smiled in response to her fear and took out a knife.

This time the terror on her face came of its own accord. It was the knife from the dream, the same knife she had used to kill him over three thousand years ago. He had kept it all this time.

"I've waited a long time to give this back to you," he said, in vicious satisfaction. He moved closer, and Caspian and Silas came with him, jackals following the kill.

Cassandra retreated until her back was against the wall. It was not difficult to make small frightened whimpers, to cower in fear. It was going to hurt. She knew that. This had happened before. But she had survived then, and she could survive now.

"Scream," Kronos warned, "and we'll kill whoever comes through the door."

She must be silent, then. She would not be responsible for another's death. Not again. At least the Horsemen would not torture her now, or take her head in the hotel. It would make too much noise.

"Methos did a good job, calling MacLeod and luring him away from you," Kronos said, well-pleased.

Cassandra blinked, trying to hide her shock. Duncan had lied to her? Duncan? He had told her would "be right back" when he _knew_ he was leaving the hotel to meet Methos? Duncan had lied?

Damn him! How dare he mislead her that way? How could he do such a thing? She swallowed hard, rage and fear and betrayal freezing into a cold certainty within her. She knew what this meant. Duncan had chosen Methos over her. Methos was his "friend," his "brother," and she was just a woman. And if she couldn't trust Duncan MacLeod, then who could she trust?

Damn all men! Fucking murderers, all of them! She shook her head and blinked, then hid her hatred, and allowed only her fear to show. Kronos would break her for hatred; he would enjoy her fear.

Kronos advanced until he was almost touching her, then carefully laid the edge of the knife against her throat, slicing into her skin. She shivered, and his smile broadened as he moved the knife moved downward, the tip delicately flicking against her nipples, teasing them into prominence. "You like that, don't you?" he asked softly, smiling again. It was Roland's smile.

She forced down her anger, held it deep inside her. She must not be angry. She had no right to be angry, no right to protect herself, no right to anything at all. The knife moved lower, and she swallowed hard, trembling.

Kronos grinned and stepped back. "But you don't want to get blood on your clothes, do you?" He spoke without turning to Silas and Caspian. "Strip her."

Not again! But she was not surprised. She was a woman, and this was what women were for. Cassandra closed her eyes and did not resist, retreating even farther behind her walls, going into that small hidden place where they could not touch her. She had done this before. The tight grips on her wrists and ankles were only dimly felt, their blows and touches did not really touch her at all.

Spread your legs. Turn her over. On your knees. Your turn, Brother?

She did not listen to their words and their grunts, her moans and her muffled cries. She did not see. She did not hear. She was not there.

When Kronos finally killed her, she felt almost nothing at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra gets her revenge

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 And it's you who cannot accept,  
 it is here we must begin  
 To seek the wisdom of the children,  
 And the graceful way  
of flowers in the wind.  
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Cassandra was in a cage. There was nothing new in that, of course. She had spent most of her life in a cage. But that had been a cage of time, a cage of waiting, a cage of her own making.

This was a cage of space, a cage of locks and bars, and someone else had put her there. She was hopeless and helpless once again. And still she waited.

She did not have to wait long.

She heard them coming even before she sensed them. Sound traveled eerily in this place, bouncing off the concrete walls and ceiling, magnified and distorted by the shallow black water that surrounded her. The cage was on a concrete block of an island, four pillared corners standing silent sentinel, a castle tower in a moat. Dark gray shadows wavered on gray walls and ceiling.

Cassandra did not know what this place was, and she did not know how long she had been here. She had revived in the car on the ride here, and Kronos had immediately injected her with some drug. She didn't remember the rest of the trip or being carried from the car. She didn't remember being placed naked in a concrete cell and handcuffed to a pipe. Kronos had been there when she had woken up. He had broken the sword Duncan had loaned her, snapped the blade in two. Then he had started on her.

Cassandra shoved that thought away. When Kronos had finished, he had allowed her to get dressed, then he had given her another injection. She had no memory of being put in this cage. She might have slept for hours. Maybe even a day.

There were no windows, so she could not see the sky. The only light came from four gas torches at the corners of the cage, and two more torches high on a walkway that overlooked the chamber. The flames flared and hissed in the cold, damp air, and the smell of the gas lay sharp above the mold and the wet. The chill from the concrete floor penetrated the thin blanket she sat on. The cage was not even high enough for her to stand.

Kronos did not like to see her on her feet.

The voices of the Horsemen murmured and swelled, and the ache in her head intensified. They would be here soon. The ripples in the water increased, and oily waves lapped at the edges of the walls. Cassandra waited.

She could see them now: Kronos and Methos, the heart and the head of the Horsemen, the prick and the asshole. She wasn't quite sure which was which, though. Maybe they took turns at that. They took turns at everything else. Including her. Silas and Caspian had had their turns at the hotel. Now it was time for Methos and Kronos. It didn't matter which went first.

They came closer, smiling, but did not bother to speak to her. Why should they? She was just a woman, just a slave, just a thing. Filthy men. Filthy fucking murdering men.

This time, she was determined not to make it easy for them. Not for Methos, anyway. Never for him. Cassandra backed into the corner of the cage farthest from the door. She had no sword, but she knew other ways to fight. She was sick of being helpless, and she had learned a lot during these last three thousand years.

They never even gave her a chance. Kronos took out a pistol and shot her through the heart.

The force of the bullet slammed her back against the corner of the cage, and the ringing echoes of the gunshot blurred into a higher-pitched ringing in her head. Shocked numbness gave way to searing pain as she slumped to one side, stopped only by the cold bars across her cheek and nose. Her vision dimmed quickly to black, and she could not see.

Kronos's voice, faint above the echoes, held an evil smile easily heard. "We ride, Brother?"

Methos sounded dim and far away, but she heard his answer clearly. "We ride."

The burning agony grew very cold, and the ringing faded to silence.

~~~~~

When Cassandra took the first painful breath and revived, she lay limp and relaxed, keeping her eyes closed. She knew exactly where she was. She had been here before, many times. She was naked again, lying on a rough blanket on a bed. Her arms were stretched over her head, and her wrists were handcuffed together. A chain went from the handcuffs to the metal bars of the headboard.

She sensed another Immortal in the room, and not only by the ache in her head. She could smell him, and feel him. Kronos was already on top of her, already in her, waiting for her to revive. There was another person in the room, too, perhaps three meters away; she could hear him breathing. It was probably Methos, watching, waiting his turn. She felt no embarrassment, no shame. She was not even there.

"Hello, witch," Kronos said.

She had heard that before, too, but it wasn't Roland now. It didn't matter. They were all the same; they all wanted to hurt her. Cassandra retreated within herself, finding that small still corner of herself where she could hide, where no one could reach her, where nothing mattered. She knew that corner well.

Kronos would not let her disappear. "Look at me."

She waited too long to obey him, and he hit her, a hard slap across the face. She opened her eyes to stare at him. She knew her eyes showed nothing. No hate, no revulsion, no fear. She was not there.

"Should I make love to you before I kill you?" They were Roland's words again. Kronos's eyes were alight with the peculiar satisfaction and glee he showed before he hurt someone, before he killed someone. He bent his head and kissed her gently along the line of her jaw, the touch of his lips following the path of the healing from where he had struck her.

Cassandra closed her eyes again. She felt nothing.

He started to move within her slowly, following the rhythm of his kisses. He whispered in her ear. "Come on, Cassandra. Move. Roland told me that you liked it this way—slow, steady, deep."

Nothing. She felt nothing. It did not matter. He did not matter. Roland did not matter.

Kronos bit down savagely on her earlobe, then laughed softly when she jerked. "See? You can move. And here I thought you might still be dead." He laughed again, a malicious whispering of pleasure in pain. "Still, it wasn't bad that way. Roland told me about that, too."

Nothing. He was nothing. Roland was nothing.

He was moving faster now, harder, and still she lay limp beneath him. Kronos did not like that. "Move!" he demanded, and hit her again.

Cassandra moved. It was not a difficult decision to make. She had made this decision before. The goal was to have him finish as soon as possible with the least amount of pain, and being raped was less painful than being beaten. She knew. Cooperate, make noises, move, smile, cry, beg, plead—do whatever it takes to make them finish faster. The sooner they were finished, the sooner you had won.

Submit. Live longer. Survive another day.

It was not much of a victory, but it was the only one available. Men liked to think they could dominate and control women. Let them think that; let them believe that. But always remember, in that small still corner where you hide, in that one place you have carved for yourself—carved in yourself, carved in your body with your blood and your pain and your tears—always remember that you hold this power over men. For that is their weakness, that they want you, while you want *nothing to do with them.

Remember that the face of a man in rut is the face of a fool, and all men are fools.

Kronos was a fool, but he was not yet finished. She had not yet won. "I've seen you on your back, Cassandra," he said, as he pulled out of her. "Let's see you on your hands and knees. Roll over."

She cooperated. It did not matter. At least now he wouldn't be breathing in her face. She did not try to stifle her cry of pain as Kronos forced himself into her. Kronos liked to inflict pain. It excited him. It would make him finish faster.

Kronos started grunting and thrusting harder. Cassandra ignored the pain, ignored the feel of his fingers digging into her hips, ignored the noises he was making, the noises she was making. He finished finally, agonizingly, then pulled out of her and stood up. Cassandra immediately curled herself into a ball, her back to them, her wrists still shackled to the pipe. It was over. She had won. For now.

"Your turn, Brother?" she heard Kronos say jovially. "She's a bit reluctant still, but we've seen that before, eh? I know you'll be able to tame her. You did before. She was quite the willing little cunt for you, wasn't she?" He laughed. "I used to listen, you know, outside your tent. You had her panting after you, begging for it."

Cassandra felt nothing. The woman he was talking about had died long ago. Cassandra wanted nothing to do with any man.

"It's your turn now, Brother," Kronos said. Methos murmured something she could not hear, and Kronos laughed. "Don't want me to know your secret, eh?" Kronos said, still sounding amused. "Just let me know when you've finished, and maybe later I'll come back for another go." His footsteps and his laughter echoed and receded.

Methos came closer; she could hear the rustling of his clothes. His voice was dry and detached. "There's a shower in the next room. I'm going to unchain so you can wash."

Cassandra waited until he had unchained her from the pipe and unlocked one wrist. She opened her eyes to a narrow slit, just enough so she could see him leaning over slightly, very close to her now. She curled herself into a tighter ball, angling slightly away from him, but let her arms lie limply on the bed as he reached for her other wrist.

Another second, another inch, and ... now! She uncoiled from her curl and slammed both her feet into his chest. She had been hoping to catch him in the throat and crush his larynx, but he had moved at the last moment, reacting to her attack, and she had managed only to send him crashing to the floor.

She rolled off the bed quickly, hoping to stamp on his throat and kill him. She knew she had only a few seconds before he recovered, but she still wasn't fast enough. He shot her with the gun, and this time the bullet knocked her backwards onto the bed.

First came the pain, then the silence and the coldness took her once again.

~~~~~

When she revived, she was still lying on the bed, and her side and her front were wet and sticky with blood. The handcuffs were off, and he had thrown the blanket over her. Cassandra pulled the blanket around her as she sat on the edge of the bed.

Methos was standing against the far wall, beyond her reach. The gun was in his hand, and there was no expression on his face.

She could not reach him, but the Voice could. "Methos," she commanded, "give me the gun."

He blinked uncertainly and his hand wavered, then he shook his head abruptly, like a horse jerking away from a pesky fly. His grip tightened on the gun once more. "Don't bother with the Voice, Cassandra," he said. "Roland taught all of us to resist it."

Cassandra summoned all her control and kept her face calm and composed. She had suspected as much, but it was still bitter news. She truly had no weapons now.

"Go wash," he commanded.

Cassandra simply looked at him. He had no right to command her to do anything. He had no rights over her at all. No man did. Methos and Roland had both insisted on silence and obedience, but Roland was dead, and she would never again let anyone terrorize her that way.

She stood slowly—she stood on her feet—and she let the blanket fall to the bed. She faced him, naked and unashamed. She had no reason to be ashamed. She had done nothing wrong. Mingled blood and semen ran down her legs and dripped on the floor and on her feet, warm slick spatters. "What's the matter, Methos?" she asked. "Don't want to take your brothers' leavings? You weren't always so fastidious."

He said nothing, and his expression did not change.

Cassandra took a step towards him. "Kronos certainly didn't mind taking yours."

She thought she saw a flicker in his eyes at that, but he did not answer.

"Or do you just not want to get blood on yourself?" She took another step. He was only four paces away. "You didn't use to mind that, either." Another step. "Before. Or during. Or after." She should be able to reach him in two more steps.

He motioned slightly with the gun, then said conversationally, "This is a nine-millimeter semi-automatic. It holds thirteen rounds. There are eleven left. I can shoot you again, and drag you into the shower. Or, you can walk in there yourself." He added calmly, "And if you take one more step towards me, Cassandra, I will shoot you."

She stopped. It was marginally satisfying to know that he realized even a naked bloody woman could be dangerous. "No," she said thoughtfully. "I've already died four times tonight. That's a good number, don't you think? After all," she added, her voice smooth and reasonable, "you killed me four times the first day you enslaved me. Remember?"

His eyes narrowed slightly, but the gun did not waver.

He remembered, she knew he did, but he had not remembered her last week, when he had first seen her in Duncan's dojo. Those first few minutes, he had honestly had no idea who she was. He had truly forgotten. The arrogant, self-centered butcher! He had destroyed her entire world, haunted her dreams for centuries, and he had not even known her name. She had been nothing to him. Nothing.

The fury she had ignored and forced down earlier flooded through her, and she welcomed it, encouraged it. She was not nothing, and the other women he had raped and tortured and murdered had not been nothing, either. They were long dead, but she could speak for them. Duncan had said that Methos had changed. If that were true, then she wanted to see some sign of it now. She wanted to see guilt.

"Tell me, Methos," she asked, using her anger and the Voice to enhance the contempt and revulsion in her words, in the way she said his name, "just how many Immortal women did you stake out on the ground and rape in your tent, and then leave them there all night? Just how many women did you strangle while you fucked them?" She took another step towards him, completely ignoring his warning in her rage. "Just how many women did you *tame*?"

There was the barest movement from him then, a tightening of the jaw.

Cassandra had one more question. "Tell me, Methos," Cassandra asked, her voice now soft and compelling, "just how did you tame Alexa?" There was a definite response now, a sudden haunting of pain in his eyes. Only for an instant, but it had been there. Good. He deserved pain. She did not bother to wait for an answer. She turned from him and went to scour away her blood and the remnants of the Horsemen.

~~~~~

Cassandra remained in the shower as long as the water stayed hot. Methos could wait for her. When she finally emerged, she saw that her clothes had been neatly folded and placed on the stool next to the sink. There had been a time when she had folded his clothes. There had been a time when she had done his bidding, and done it promptly, done it eagerly.

She whirled and slammed her fist into the mirror above the sink, cracking the glass. No more. Never again. Not for him, not for any man. Not for anyone.

She waited for her hand to heal, then picked up her shirt. There was a small bullet hole in the front, and a larger hole in the back. It was damp, but clean. Methos must have washed the blood out for her. Once she had washed his clothes for him. She had cooked his food and fetched his drinks. She had knelt before him and washed the blood from his hands, blood of other women, blood of children, blood of people just like her.

Goddess blast and annihilate that man! What a total, blind fool she had been! What a pathetic, simpering idiot! She had betrayed the memory of her people. She had abandoned everything she had been and everything she had believed in, all for the sake of his smile.

Kronos had been right. She had been willing. She had been more than willing. She had been proud to be the one Methos singled out for attention. She had been proud to be his woman. His slave. His whore. No, not even his whore. Whores got paid. She had done it for nothing. Kronos had been right again. His cunt.

She flung her shirt on the floor, then grabbed the stool and smashed it into the cracked mirror, over and over again. Stupid, naive, ignorant, trusting, damned bloody fucking wasted, gullible worthless willing little cunt!

She flung the broken pieces of the stool into the corner, then stood panting in the middle of the bathroom. A man's shaving equipment, now sprinkled with splintered shards of glass, was placed neatly on a tray at the edge of the sink. Cassandra stepped forward, ignoring the crunch of glass, the slicing pain in her feet. She backhanded the tray, knocking it and all its contents into the toilet. The towels followed the shaving gear, and the shower curtain followed them.

She took a deep breath as she looked about the room. Connor would be proud. "Let the anger out, Cassandra," he had told her. "Let it out." It was too bad there was nothing else to break, but then the Horsemen weren't very interested in interior decorating. All they did was destroy.

Cassandra took another deep breath as the anger started to come again, then closed her eyes and allowed the rage to fill her, a cold black bitter wash of hate. It felt good. She breathed out slowly, spilling some of that rage. She did not need to save it; the well of bitterness was overflowing.

She shook the glass shards from her clothing and dressed, then combed her hair. There was no need to hurry. Cassandra replaced her comb in the back-pocket of her pants, then looked about her one last time. She had forgotten the toilet paper. It went in the sink, with the water faucet left on and running. She opened the bathroom door gently and stepped into the room. She did not shut the door behind her.

Methos was sitting on the edge of a chair, his elbows on his knees, his head down. He glanced at her, then took one quick look at the bathroom, assessing the damage. His mouth twisted slightly, and he shrugged, but his eyes met hers in bitter amusement. "Yeah," he said softly, as he rose to his feet. The gun was still in his hand. He sighed, and his voice was weary and uninterested as he asked, "Ready?"

"For what?" Her voice was brittle as she looked at the bed against the wall. "Rape? Murder? Torture? Strangling?" She took a step toward him, filled and overflowing with rage again. "Taming?"

He said patiently, "Are you ready to walk back?"

So, there was to be no more rape now. Methos was pretending to be kind in an effort to make her feel grateful. She knew this technique, and it wouldn't work on her. Not again.

His patience was wearing thin. "Or will I have to shoot you again and then carry you?"

She was angry, but she wasn't stupid. She was tired of death. She walked. Kronos joined them as they walked through the hallway, and he and Methos took her back to her cage.

~~~~~

Cassandra was in the cage, waiting.

She was thirsty. The gentle lapping of the water surrounding her did not help.

She was cold. The concrete floor leached away warmth, and she could not stop herself from shivering. She shifted to a crouching position and huddled under the blanket. Her shirt and the bottom of her pants were almost dry; it would be better soon.

She was tired. She had dozed off after Kronos had locked her in, but it was too cold to sleep for very long. At least she had not had any nightmares. While she was sleeping, that is. Maybe she would never wake up from this one.

She was angry.

She was waiting.

~~~~~

An Immortal approached, and the gentle lapping of the waves became splashing. It was Methos, carrying another blanket, a bottle of water, and a bowl of food. He pushed the blanket through the slot in the door and then put the food and water in after it, as if he were feeding a dog. Or a slave. He did not leave immediately, but perched on the ledge of the concrete island, on the far side of the cage from her.

Cassandra sat on the blanket and leaned her back against the wires of the cage, her legs outstretched before her. She drank, but ignored the food. The ripples of the waves died away, and the silence lay empty between them. She had nothing to say to him. She was not grateful.

Methos finally cleared his throat and suggested, "You should eat."

He had no right to tell her what to do! She slammed her heel against the food bowl and knocked it across the cage.

He sounded faintly annoyed. "This is familiar."

Oh, yes, familiar. Very familiar. She had been here before, and so had he. She knew how masters broke slaves to their will, and so did he. Pain, rape, humiliation, hunger, thirst, cold. She knew how they tamed them, and so did he. A little food, a little kindness, a little sympathy. She remembered, and so did he.

Not this time.

Cassandra took a deep breath, forcing herself to speak calmly through the anger. "I'm not your sorry little slave anymore. I know what I am now, what you are." The rage was rising, and she allowed it to flow through her, to surround and engulf her. "You may have fooled MacLeod, but you've never fooled me."

"I wasn't trying to fool anyone." He sounded very sincere.

She wasn't that stupid or that gullible. Not anymore. Of course, he had been trying to fool Duncan. She almost laughed at him. "If MacLeod knew what you really are, he would have taken your head long ago."

"Well, he had his chance," Methos answered. "He didn't."

That was only because Duncan hadn't understand how dangerous Methos was. Duncan probably understood now, if he wasn't already dead. Cassandra pushed that thought away, unable to face it, not with Methos sitting right there.

Methos tried again. "It wasn't all bad, when we were together."

The good times between them had been lies—his lies. Her words did not come easily. "I only served you because you forced me." That was another lie, and she knew it.

So did he. His voice was gentle, even pitying, as he said, "Don't hate yourself."

She did not want his pity! She wanted nothing from him, except his head. Hate was all that was left to her. Hatred of the Horsemen, hatred of herself—it did not matter. Hate was the only thing she had, the only thing she could depend on.

Methos had moved to the door of the cage, and now he standing next to her, leaning over her slightly, babbling nonsense about some syndrome. He said, "Hostages come to rely on their captors for food and approval."

Hostages. Prisoners. Captives. Why didn't he just use the word slave?

He was still talking. "They fall in love."

She stared at him in amazement, then said through bitter laughter, "I never loved you." He couldn't possibly believe that. He couldn't be that much of a fool. Not even she had been that much of a fool. She had sought his approval; she had been pleased to have his attention, but she had never once thought that.

The truth was far worse. He had been too far above her to consider loving. He had been her master, her owner, her god. You did not love gods; you worshipped them.

Never again.

Methos said, "You thought you did."

The sheer arrogance of that man! Conceited, insufferable, self-centered ...!

"You thought I would protect you."

Yes, she had thought that. She had thought she was special. She had thought she meant something to him. She had been wrong.

"You forgot what I was," he said earnestly, leaning close against the side of the cage.

"I forgot nothing!" she snarled, slamming her hands against the bars where he was looking at her, his expression so gentle, so sincere, so bloody arrogant. He had been the one to forget! He had been the one to betray her, just as he had betrayed Duncan! She wanted to strangle Methos as he had once strangled her. She wanted to rip his heart out and leave it bleeding on the floor. She wanted to kill him slowly and laugh at him while he died, over and over again, just as he had done to her. "I'll take your head with my bare hands—yours, then Kronos!"

He moved back from the bars and shook his head slightly, seeming almost puzzled. "Why do you still hate me so much?"

That didn't even deserve an answer. She just glared at him.

"Come on, Cassandra," he said engagingly. "You can't tell me that in over three thousand years you were only captured once."

"Captured?" Cassandra repeated incredulously. "Is that what you call it, when you murder someone, and rape her, and torture her, and keep her as a slave?"

Methos looked away and flinched slightly at the list, but turned back to her and nodded. "All right. Murder, rape, torture, slavery. Yes. All of that. I did all of that. To you, and to others. And I have had it done to me."

"Have you? Did they kill your family, your people? Did they stake you out on the floor and rape you, and then leave you there for hours? Did they pass you around to their friends? Did they kill you over and over again to tame you?

He had flinched again at each question, but he answered her. "Yes."

"Good." He deserved it. She had not.

Methos said in exasperation, "Do you think any Immortal past the age of five hundred has escaped slavery? You know what the world was like back then. And you can't tell me it didn't happen to you again."

He was right; it had happened to her again, over and over again. But that didn't make what he had done any less terrible. "You were the first," she spat.

"Bad timing?" Methos asked incredulously. "You hate me because of bad timing?"

He seemed to expect her to smile. Arrogant insufferable man.

"There's another reason, Cassandra." He looked at her like an eager puppy, friendly, interested, concerned. "What is it?" He waited, then asked again, "Why do you hate me so much?" He moved closer once more. "What else did I do?" He really seemed to want to know.

She decided to tell him. "You destroyed my son."

"Your son?" he asked in bewilderment, then caught his breath in remembrance. "Ah." He nodded and let the air out slowly. "Roland."

Cassandra blinked back tears at the name. She would not cry in front of this man. She would not.

Methos rubbed his hand over his face tiredly, then moved back to the ledge, sitting down once more. He stared in silence at the flame of the torch above him for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. "He looked for us, you know. He sought us out."

"Not at first," she said bitterly. "He was nineteen, and you found him. You found him, and you took him, and you taught him your ways. You taught him to be a murdering rapist just like you. Then you told him how to 'tame' me, and you sent him back to me, so I could see and *appreciate* what you had done."

Methos was shaking his head. "No," he protested. "I met him when he was past forty, right before he became an Immortal. I never knew him when he was that young."

"He told me!"

"And Roland never lied to you?" Methos let that sink in for a moment, then added, "Kronos was the one who found him first. Kronos was the one who sent him back to you."

She stared at him, not wanting to believe him, yet knowing it was true.

"You know Kronos hated you, after what you did to him." He smiled at her in rueful admiration. "He was ... very angry when he revived."

He gave her another smile, and this time she almost smiled back. Kronos had kept the knife she had used to kill him for over three thousand years. It was not exactly comforting, but it was at least gratifying to know that Kronos had not forgotten her. She had not been nothing to him.

Methos said thoughtfully, "Kronos probably told Roland to tell you that I had been the one to find him, so that you would hate me." He glanced at her and added, "Even more than you already did." He fell silent again, staring at the water.

Cassandra watched him, wondering how much of this was an act, how much was sincere. She believed him about Roland, but Methos was not to be trusted. And there was more. She was not about to let him escape his responsibility. "But you did meet Roland later. You killed him for the first time."

"Yes," he admitted. "He was over forty, after all."

"But you didn't just make him an Immortal. You made him a Horseman, and then you sent him after me. You told him I was at the Temple on the Isle of Lesbos."

"Yes." Methos shrugged. "He had been trying to teach us to use the Voice, but all he had managed was to teach us to resist it. He was supposed to get you and bring you back to us, so that you could teach us the Voice."

Cassandra stared at him, icy fingers of horror crawling up her spine. To be a prisoner of the Horsemen again, to be forced to ...! She snarled at him, "There was nothing—nothing!—you could have done to me to make me teach you the Voice." She hoped that would have been true.

He simply shrugged. "Maybe not. But that was the plan, and that was why I told Roland where you were." He shifted position and crossed his feet at the ankles, the picture of relaxation. "But when I saw him again, about four centuries later, he told me you were dead."

Roland had not liked to share.

Methos said, "That's why I didn't recognize you at the dojo. I wasn't exactly expecting to see you, and I had other things on my mind."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"What do you want?" he said in exasperation. "Flowers?"

He had given her a flower once, a rare desert bloom. She had kept it until the petals faded and fell off, and then she had saved even those. What an idiot she had been. "You took my son, and turned him against me. You made him into a Horseman and destroyed him."

"I didn't destroy him, Cassandra," Methos said. "He wanted to be a Horseman. The seeds of it were already in him."

"You were his first teacher!"

"Roland was your son, Cassandra," Methos countered acidly. "*You* were his first teacher."

Cassandra closed her eyes in anguish. Oh, Roland! She had tried so hard with Roland, tried to love him, to care for him, to keep him safe. She had failed, and Roland had hated her for it. She had failed completely, and Roland had become a monster, and then she had hated him. She had stood by and watched while Duncan cut off Roland's head, and she had rejoiced in her son's death. Then she had wept.

She shook herself and opened her eyes. She did not want to think about Roland now. He was dead, and she had other problems. One of those problems was sitting right in front of her.

"Yes," she said to Methos, willing her voice to be calm and cold once again. "I was Roland's first teacher. And *you* were mine. I learned a lot from you, and from Kronos."

Methos sighed, then came over to her side of the cage again. "Cassandra," he urged quietly, "we have to be careful. I have seen what happens to people who go up against Kronos. If we want to survive," he said, with a quick, anxious glance around him, "we will keep him happy."

Cassandra looked at him in disdain. He must think she was completely stupid. She knew why he was pretending to be frightened of Kronos. He wanted her to think that he was on her side; he wanted her to feel sympathy for him. He wanted to tame her.

Never again.

"I didn't do it then, and I won't now." She had submitted to Kronos earlier that day, but she had not surrendered. She *had* surrendered to Roland and to Methos, allowed them to own her. She had tried to keep them happy. In doing so, she had lost her own soul. She knew that if she surrendered to Kronos, if she "kept him happy," she would lose herself again. Once again, she would be nothing.

She might not find herself the next time. Cassandra looked at Methos and said simply, "I'd rather die."

His answer was just as simple. "Well then, you'll die." He shook his head in disgust, then added as an afterthought, "And you can forget about MacLeod."

She knew what was coming. She knew what Methos was going to say.

"MacLeod is dead."

The words dropped into the waiting silence between them, landed in the dark waters surrounding her, the ripples spreading and returning, fading away to nothing. His footsteps echoed and receded, too.

She knew why Methos had chosen to tell her now. She had suspected MacLeod was dead, but she had hoped she was wrong. Methos had stripped that hope away, leaving her broken and empty in the cage, leaving her alone once again. Cassandra waited until the last echoes of his footsteps had gone before she let her tears fall.

She wept for Duncan, for the bright promise of the young boy he had been, all those years ago in Donan Woods, the lad of sunshine and eager fire. She wept for the man she had come to know this last week, the man of courage and strength, tenderness and loyalty, the man who had been betrayed by a man he called friend.

She wept for Connor, for the anguish she knew would shred him and leave him stripped and bleeding. Connor had his mortal family now, but they would die, and then Connor would face the long empty centuries alone, without brother or kin. How would Connor find out? Who would tell him that his student had been beheaded? And what would Connor do when he learned that Duncan, his son, was dead?

She wept for her own son, for Roland, for the little boy he once had been, and the horribly twisted, lonely man he had become.

She wept for the woman who had been Methos's slave long ago—young, naive, trusting, dead.

Cassandra wept for all the women, all the slaves, all the children, all the sheer awful waste, the endless pointless pain, the total stupidity of this bloody nonsense called the Game, and the even more bloody idiotic waste of all the wars and all the battles that had been fought over the eons.

There were many more to cry for, and she did not have enough tears even to begin. She wept until she could weep no more, and then she slept in her cage.

~~~~~

Cassandra opened her eyes and saw nothing. She blinked and tried again, but it was still completely dark. No fire burned now; all the torches were dead.

She was almost asleep again when she heard the voices —loud and soft, jabbering and whispering, in a mixture of languages and tongues. Hundreds and thousands of voices, all at once, all around. She clapped her hands to her ears, but the noise did not go away. The voices were inside her.

The voices grew louder, and thunder rolled. Through lightning flashes she could see Methos standing on the walkway above her. His arms were outstretched, his head down—a Christ without a cross. A searing flash of lightning stabbed him in the back, and he lifted his head and flung his arms outward in a spasm of pain. His eyes stayed open, and they were filled with hate and rage and despair.

Cassandra shivered and closed her own eyes, for the eyes of the Horseman were mad.

"I am Death!" he cried out, as the lightning took him again.

When she dared to look, his face was the face of a skull, and the lightning came from the empty sockets that had been his sightless staring eyes. Rain poured down, washing over him.

But as the water touched Methos, it turned to blood. Blood-tears coursed down his face. Blood dripped from every fingertip, and rivulets of red covered his arms. He stood crucified in a pool of ever-widening darkness, and the blood-water grew deeper around him, up to his ankles, his knees, and his waist. The rain and the lightning continued, and still the blood came forth.

The lightning faded, and it was dark once again, but the voices remained—murmuring and swelling into the rushing of water over rock, the soft patter of rain on the leaves. And then came a new sound— terrible wracking sobs, coming from a black well of despair.

After a very long time, the voices and the water faded, but the sobs continued in the blackness, empty and alone.

~~~~~

Cassandra woke, cold. The torches were still burning, and there was no one there. She stretched, then shivered and pulled the blanket closer around her, hearing again the voices of the dream.

She had not had one like that for a long time. Lately, she had had only nightmares from her own past. This had been a dream of prophecy, and it was from Methos's future. Would the insanity be induced by delayed grief at killing Duncan? Had he changed that much? Or would something else happen?

She shivered again at the memory of his eyes. Methos as a sane Horseman had been bad enough; she did not want to be anywhere near him when the madness took him. Cassandra ate the food Methos had brought earlier and drank some of the water, then washed away the marks of her tears. Tears were useless, and she had none left.

Hate was better, and she had plenty of that.

~~~~~

Methos came back again, splashing through the water, carrying cheese, bread, and apples. He perched on the edge of the cage once more, but she ignored him while she ate, then she wrapped the blanket around herself and stared at the shadows on the wall. Methos could sit there until he rotted.

He was not willing to wait that long. "The sun will be up soon," he commented.

Cassandra did not answer. Maybe he was going to start talking about the weather next. But some small part of her was obscurely reassured by the information. She had had no idea what time it was. Kronos had captured her before midnight, so that meant she had been in the cage for at least an entire day. Maybe two days. Maybe three. That is, if Methos were telling the truth about the sun rising at all. Cassandra dismissed it from her mind. They would kill her eventually; what did the time of day matter?

She wondered when they had killed Duncan, which of the four had taken his head. Had they argued over who took the Quickening? Had they tortured him first? Had Methos sat by and watched, as he had when Kronos had raped her, or had he joined in? "Tell me, Methos," she asked, wanting to see if he did indeed have a conscience now, "did you take Duncan's head? Or was it Kronos's turn this time?"

His head snapped up, his eyes dark pits of shadows.

Cassandra smiled to herself. Oh, yes, there was guilt in those eyes, and a lot of it. Good.

The guilt in his eyes became an immense weariness, and his voice was tired, too. "I didn't mean for this to happen."

"Your sword slipped?" she asked.

"I didn't kill him."

"No?" she challenged. "Maybe you didn't take his head, but who lured him away? Who handed him over to Kronos? Who lied to him? Who betrayed him?" She smiled again, and this time she let him see it. "It was you, Methos."

Methos turned his face away.

Now Cassandra knew just where to strike. "You know, Methos, sometimes Duncan sounded as if he thought you were his teacher. He trusted you. He thought you were his friend."

His words came in a hoarse whisper. "I was."

"I'm glad to be your enemy then. At least I know where I stand with you."

"Cassandra," he said, earnest, turning to her now, "I didn't mean for this to happen, either."

"No?" she questioned, looking about the cage in mock surprise. "It's a mistake, then? A little torture, some rape, a murder or two ... Just a misunderstanding?"

"If I had tried to stop Kronos, then or now, he would have taken your head, or made it even worse." He came over to the door of the cage, then leaned towards her, looking at her with that same damnably earnest expression on his face. "I knew you would survive."

"I didn't *survive*," she spat back at him. "I *died* in his tent." He did not answer, and she said more softly, "My body died, too."

**____________________________________________________**

**The Bronze Age**  
**The Horseman's Camp**  
**____________________________________________________**

Her master had come back, hot and tired from his ride. In his tent, she bowed her head and offered him refreshment, and he took the cup of grape juice from her hands. "It's good," he said, and sipped again as he sat down on the stool.

"I cooled it in the river for you," she ventured, for she could tell by his quietness that today he would permit such liberties. She knelt before him, as was fitting, and with a cloth she wiped the dust from his hands, then dared again to speak without permission. "You rode far today."

He nodded, but did not reply.

Her master was weary, and she should offer him the comfort of her body. If he wished. She reached to wipe the dust and sweat from his face, watching him, ready to stop instantly if his eyes said no.

They said yes, and she continued until he reached to touch her cheek, his hand gentle today. She waited for whatever he might do, hoping to please him.

But his hand dropped from her, for his brother Kronos had entered the tent.

"My compliments, Brother," Kronos said. "You taught her well in everything, I see." He picked up a piece of the fruit she had gathered so painstakingly earlier that day. "And it seems she keeps the best fruit for you."

Her master answered, his voice quiet, as he was always quiet, "It's no different from the rest."

"Maybe it just tastes better in here." The brother Kronos took a bite and came over to look at her.

She stared at the floor and waited, feeling his gaze on her, a prickling heat along her body.

"Made quite a prize of her, haven't you?" he asked.

Her master's voice was still quiet. "She's no different from the others."

She did not move, did not speak, but she knew that was not true. Did her master gift the other slaves with new gowns? Did he give them gold to wear? Did he permit them to speak? The other women came and went, but she alone remained. She knew she was different. Her master had made her so.

"Except you seem to prefer her to all others," the brother observed.

She kept her head down, but fierce joy mixed with pride inside her. Her master did prefer her. She had pleased him well.

"Why is that?" Kronos asked, his voice suddenly cold, the smile gone.

She dared to glance up, wondering at the tension between them, for now her master was standing, too, and facing his brother, like two rams at mating time.

"Have you grown attached?" Kronos said.

"No." Her master's voice was still quiet, but cold now, colder than his brother's.

Kronos was smiling again. "Good. I didn't think you'd make a mistake like that, Brother." His voice was once more cold. "Because now it's time to share the spoils of war."

Her master looked at her briefly, then turned away as his brother Kronos grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her to her feet.

"No!" she cried, trying to pull away. She belonged to Methos, not Kronos! Methos was her master. No one else should touch her.

"You've left some spirit in her, I see!" Kronos exclaimed, twisting her wrist until she bit her lip with pain. "I like that, Brother." He pulled her behind him as he headed for the tent flap. "When I'm finished with her, maybe I'll let Caspian have her."

"Methos, please!" she cried, desperate enough to call her master by his name, even in front of one of his brothers. "Please!"

Her master did not turn.

~~~~~

She kept calling for Methos as Kronos dragged her into his tent. Her master did not come.

She tried to run, but Kronos grabbed her by the hair and yanked her onto his pallet on the floor. Then he smiled, and he taught her more about pain in a few shattering moments than Methos had in a month. "Call for him," he commanded, while he was waiting for her to heal. "Beg Methos to come to you."

She did, but Methos did not come.

Kronos smiled, but not at her. "He can hear you, you know," he told her. "He just doesn't care."

She shook her head. Her master would not abandon her. She knew that, and she trusted him. She had pleased him well, in all things. She belonged to him, and it her duty to protect his property, to allow no other man to touch her.

But Kronos touched her. Over and over again, as the sun sank lower in the sky and the tent grew dim. And still she fought Kronos, and still she called for Methos, and still he did not come. Perhaps he was no longer there, she thought, dazed with the pain and the scent of her blood. Perhaps he had gone riding with his brother Silas, and so could not hear.

"He won't want you now," Kronos said, close against her ear. "Not anymore."

Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, and she shook her head again, but not in denial this time. Kronos was right. She had dishonored herself and failed in her duty, and Methos would not want her anymore.

She was truly nothing now.

This time, she did not protest when Kronos raped her. She belonged to no one, and any man could take her. And she did not struggle when he killed her one last time. She was already dead.

____________________________________________________

Cassandra's voice was brittle with remembered pain. "Did you leave the camp?"

The same hoarse whisper from him as he admitted, "I was there."

"Then you heard." He had heard her screams for help, and he had done nothing. Why was she surprised, even now?

"I saw you escape that night," he offered, in a pitiful attempt at atonement. "I let you go."

"Yes," Cassandra said, nodding now. "You let me go."

"Don't you understand?" Frustration and rage scraped at the edges of his voice, like a rasp across the knuckles that grinds away the skin. "He was my brother! There was nothing I could do! There are cages you can't see, and promises you can't break."

Cassandra knew that. She knew that same rasping, grinding, helplessness that left the open flesh raw and bleeding, down to the white of the bone. She had spent over three thousand years trapped in a cage of promises. She had stood by and listened—and *watched*—while her son Roland had tortured her families to death, and she had done nothing.

Just like Methos.

Cassandra buried her head against her knees. Methos had told her, "You forgot what I was!" and he had been right. When she was with the Horsemen, she had created a dream-world for herself, trying to make the nightmare she lived in more bearable. Her vision of Methos had been part of that dream. She had expected too much of him then, and Duncan had expected too much of him now. Kronos owned Methos, body and soul, just as Methos and Roland had once owned her.

"I didn't want MacLeod to die," Methos said, the rasp of frustration and pain scouring deeper, into the bone, down to the marrow. He looked younger somehow, standing by the side of her cage, a lost child crying out against the unfairness of it all.

It was the truth, Cassandra knew; she could hear it all through him. But she could summon no pity for him now. He had brought it upon himself, and it was his fault Duncan was dead. "Why are you here?" she asked him, wondering why he didn't just go away and leave her alone. "Are you looking for some kind of absolution from me, Methos? Or forgiveness?"

His eyes were dark against the stark pallor of his face, the skin drawn tightly over the cheekbones, like a starving child begging to be held. "Can you?"

She had seen too many starving children to be moved by his plea. And he wasn't really asking her to forgive him, he was just wondering if she could. The answer was easy. She swept her glance around her cage, then leaned forward and grasped the bars of the door, shaking them. The door stayed locked. "Ask me another time," she suggested.

Anger darkened his eyes even more, and he leaned forward and grasped the bars just above her own hands. "I haven't got the keys, either," he said, as they stared at each other through the door of the cage. "I'm as much a prisoner as you are."

Cassandra smiled in useless triumph as she let go, then she shook her head and whispered, "More."

Hopelessness washed away the anger, and Methos nodded slowly. "More," he whispered in return. He went back to sit on the ledge at the end of the cage, and they sat in silence once again. Finally, he ventured, "I am trying to get both of us out of here alive. And I can't do that without your cooperation."

Cassandra pulled the blanket close around her, then leaned back against the bars. "Being politically correct doesn't suit you, Methos. Don't you mean obedience?"

He almost hiccupped with laughter, then Methos sighed and closed his eyes briefly. "Cassandra...," he started, seeming almost nervous, then plunged forward, "you killed Kronos once, and you can do it again." He leaned toward her and lowered his voice, offering her a deal. "We can make it permanent this time."

She could only stare. How stupid did he think she was? The only way she could get close enough to kill Kronos was to "keep him happy," and it would take a long time before Kronos decided she was broken enough to be trustworthy. Keep Kronos happy. Easy for Methos to say, but she knew how hard it would be to do.

Did Methos know what he was asking of her? Methos wouldn't have to cooperate in his own rapes. Methos wasn't going to be beaten to death, or be strangled while Kronos was fucking him. Methos wasn't going to have to smile while he spread his legs or opened his mouth. Oh, he probably smiled, but he didn't have to; he wanted to. She did not.

She could not.

She laced her words with sarcasm and disdain. "I get to 'keep him happy,' and *you* get to take his head?"

"*You* can have his head," Methos offered. "I'll give you a sword."

He did think she was that stupid. As if Methos would ever really give her a sword. Or join with her in a plot to kill his brother. He would set her up, then betray her to Kronos. She knew that. But still ... she might as well see just how many lies he was willing to tell. It would be amusing, and she had nothing better to do. "And what do I get out of this?"

Now it was Methos's turn to stare. Had he thought he would simply agree with him? Bow her head and say, "Yes, Master"? She wasn't his sorry little slave anymore. Cassandra smiled at his confusion and stated her demand. "When he's dead, I want your head, too." Ask for everything; you might get something. "Will you kneel down and offer it to me?"

His disbelief became shock. It was rather funny, the way his mouth stayed open while he tried to think of a witty response. Then his mouth snapped shut, and he slammed his fist against the side of the cage. Methos looked away, staring down at the water.

So, the answer was no. What a surprise. "I thought not." Cassandra settled back against the wall of her cage and watched him. "You haven't changed at all." Still playing games, still trying to mess with her mind.

"Cassandra," he said wearily, "can't you let go of it? It was three thousand years ago."

The bitterness of those three thousand years and the rapes of the past two days came out in her answer. "It was yesterday," she snarled.

"Yeah," he admitted. "But yesterday's over. Want a tomorrow?"

"Not with him," she said, then added with a half-hysterical giggle that came all unbidden, "That would be a fate worse than Death."

Methos stared at her, then a wry smile crept over his face as he shook his head. "I never knew you had a sense of humor."

The giggle disappeared, a broken bubble on the surface of still, dark water. "We never had much of a chance to laugh."

"No." The word was more whispered than spoken. Methos sat with his head bowed for a moment, then looked at her. "We never will, unless we get out of this. And the key to escape is Kronos."

Keeping Kronos happy was just another cage. "I can't do that, Methos."

Methos sighed in exasperation and said, "You have got to be the most stupidly stubborn woman I have ever met."

"I am what you made me," Cassandra replied evenly, "a Daughter of Night." He looked at her blankly, and she asked, "Have you forgotten that story, Methos?" She sat up straight on the floor of the cage, her eyes intent upon him, her hair loose around her shoulders. Once more she was an elder of her tribe. "You should never forget. Not that story. Not you."

The concrete floor beneath her was created of lime and sand, rock and shell—Earth, both once-living and seemingly-dead. Water surrounded her. Fire flickered above her on the four corners of her cage. Air she drew within her, air that gave her breath and life. Once more she was a priestess of her people.

The power swelled within her, into her voice and into her hands, and the story was poetry and music and dance, told as it should be, told by firelight in the dark of the cave. And Methos was listening.

"Long ago, in the dim time, before the time was counted, Uranus the Sky-Father was challenged by his son to determine who should rule. The battle raged fiercely for many years, high in the heavens, with thunder and with lightning, with hail of bones and rain of blood.

"Until finally, there was silence, and the sky was clear. The father was defeated, vanquished, banished to eternal darkness, to Night. But before he was banished, the son castrated the father, so that no more children might be born who might one day challenge his rule."

Methos moved slightly on the ledge, shifting his weight, crossing his legs. She knew why, and she smiled to herself as she continued.

"But from the wound of Uranus the Sky-Father there came blood, and three drops of the blood fell onto Gaia the Earth-Mother. And the Mother accepted the blood and held it within her, and brought forth from herself three women, three sisters, and she called them Daughters of Night.

"The three sisters were born with eyes of flame, and winge'd feet, and snakes for hair. They are Immortal. They carry whips and torches, and they pursue those who have done wrong, driving them mad, hounding them even unto death, and beyond. And the sisters are called by name Alecto the Unceasing, Megaera the Grudging, and Tisiphone the Vengeful."

Methos merely shrugged.

"Men call them—the Furies," Cassandra added.

"Should I start calling you Tisiphone?" he asked, flippant in his uneasiness. "Or Alecto? Or Megaera? Or just plain Fury?"

"All of them." Cassandra was neither perturbed nor amused; she knew he had heard her words. "All three. And more. I am all women, Methos. All the women you ever abused, ever raped, ever killed. The men and the children, too. The others are dead now, but I am not. I speak for them, and I have come for you."

"Very poetic, Cassandra," he said, clapping his hands slowly. "Very Greek."

"I am more a Trojan than a Greek," she reminded him. "And there was another Cassandra in Troy—my namesake, my foster-daughter. No one ever believed her, but she was always right in the end." Cassandra felt the power surge within her. She was once more prophetess and seer, and her words were Truth as she spoke of her dream. "I tell you now, Methos, there is no escape for you. The Furies pursue into madness, unto Death, and beyond."

Methos shifted his position on the ledge, stretching his legs, and Cassandra asked him one last question. "You know the name of the son who castrates his father, don't you, Methos?" By his face she saw he knew it, and by his eyes he would not speak it.

But Cassandra would. There was power in names.

"His name," she said, "is Kronos."

~~~~~

They sat there silent, the lines clearly drawn. Cassandra waited. She knew how. Neither she nor Methos moved when they felt the approach of Immortals. There was nowhere for them to go.

Only two of the brothers now, Kronos and Silas. Caspian was not there. Kronos unlocked the door to her cage and spoke quickly to Silas. "If MacLeod even gets close, kill her."

"He's alive?" she exclaimed, throwing off the blanket she had wrapped herself in. Duncan was alive! Alive! Methos had lied once again.

Kronos deigned to answer her as he went to Methos. "Not for long."

Cassandra crawled towards Methos on her hands and knees, speaking to him from inside her cage. "You failed!" she exulted. Duncan was alive!

Methos did not answer her, for Kronos beckoned. "Come along, my clever friend. We're going to poison a city." And of course, Methos went, chained by unbreakable promises, imprisoned by ever-tightening bars.

Cassandra was left to sit in her cage and wait, but this time she was not alone. Silas stood behind her, sharpening his axe. After a minute of the mind-numbing noise, she snapped, "Do you have to do that?"

He stopped, than ran his thumb along the edge and grinned. "Sharp enough."

No doubt. At least it would be quick. She turned around to look at him more carefully, a hulking brute of a man. Unlike Kronos and Caspian, there was no malice in Silas. He wasn't smart enough for that. He was simply waiting now, a silent bear-like figure—patient, lumbering, deadly.

Kronos was definitely something reptilian. Not a crocodile or a snake, she decided, but a Komodo dragon, eating its young, bringing with it the stench of corruption. Caspian was—or had been?—a jackal, slavering after other's kills, eager enough to kill on his own when the chance arose. Methos now ... Methos was a sphinx, a male one—part human, part lion, all riddles. Connor, of course, was a lone wolf. Duncan reminded her of a black panther in his movements, but he was too social. A black-maned lion, perhaps. Herself? Cassandra did not want to think about that.

And she should not be thinking about the others, either, she realized. She should be trying to escape, not distracting herself with foolish imagery. Cassandra needed to hear Silas speak more, so she could register him and try to control him with the Voice. Then he would let her leave the cage. "Where's Caspian?" she asked.

Silas did not speak, but the flash of anger and hurt in his eyes told her that Caspian was indeed dead.

"MacLeod killed him?" she guessed and knew by Silas's face that she was right. "Where you there?"

A warning rumble was his only response, and Cassandra abandoned the conversational approach. "Silas," she commanded, with the firm and soothing tones she would use to a horse, "move back against the wall."

He actually took a step backward, then stopped and shook his head slowly, fighting off her influence. Roland had taught him well.

Cassandra slumped back in the corner of her cage and waited. Maybe for the last time.

~~~~~

Only a few minutes later, Methos splashed through the water to the cage again, but instead of food and blankets, this time he carried his sword. He was panting slightly, and he leaned one hand on the concrete pillar of the cage for support.

"MacLeod's here?" Silas asked.

For a moment, Cassandra thought Methos wasn't going to answer. But, "Yes," he said, even as he closed his eyes, and Cassandra closed hers, too. The waiting was over.

Silas had the cage open, then crawled in and dragged her out by the back of her shirt. She struggled against him, a final useless protest, a helpless kitten caught by the scruff of the neck. Silas was too strong. Maybe, she thought, with an odd calmness as she writhed in his grip, maybe Duncan will kill Kronos before Silas and Methos go back to help their brother. Maybe my life will buy Duncan that much time.

Maybe my death will be of more use than my life. At least the heart of the Horsemen will be cut out.

She stopped struggling, and stayed there at the door of the cage, on her hands and knees, her head down, her neck exposed. There was a breath of air from the upward swing of Silas's axe, and Cassandra closed her eyes and waited. Blessings upon you, Duncan. And you, Connor. I wish —

A sudden movement caught her eye. Methos was holding his sword in front of the axe, blocking his brother's blow. His head was down, his face turned from her.

"You're challenging me?" Silas said, almost laughing in his disbelief. "For the girl's head?"

Cassandra could not believe it, either. Methos had never wanted her Quickening before.

Silas didn't mind giving her to Methos, anymore than Methos had minded giving her to Kronos. "Take it," Silas offered, then dropped his axe slightly and moved out of the way, still holding tight to her shirt. "She's yours, brother."

Again Cassandra readied herself for the fatal blow, and again it did not come.

Methos stepped forward and placed his sword against Silas's axe, then said fiercely, "I am not your brother."

"How can you do this?" Silas asked in confusion. "How can you go against what you are?"

Cassandra stared up at Methos from her place on the floor of the cage, wondering exactly the same thing. A sphinx, indeed.

Methos glanced at her, his eyes dark but free. He had decided to open his cage. "You don't know anything about me!" Methos snarled, and he struck out against his brother.

Silas dropped his hold on Cassandra's shirt and grasped his axe with both hands to beat back the attack. And so the battle began, while Cassandra crouched forgotten in the opened cage.

She waited until Methos and Silas had left the room before she dared to leave. The water was even colder than she remembered, and she hurried to the dry concrete walkway. The sounds of battle were loud but confusing, echoes floating down the many corridors and rooms. Cassandra moved carefully, following the noise, until she arrived at a large chamber. She stayed in the shadow of the doorway, watching.

Kronos and Duncan were on a high walkway farther down the hall, the edges lit by flaming torches. Silas and Methos were fighting below her, on a small dock next to a watery bay, and more torches and two braziers burned there as well. Hadn't these Horsemen ever heard of electricity?

They didn't need the light from the fires now. Morning sunlight poured through large openings set high in the far wall.

So the sun had risen. Methos hadn't lied about that.

What else hadn't he lied about? What else could she believe? He had not wanted Duncan's death earlier, and he was fighting Silas now. What did that mean? Had he truly broken with the Horsemen? Or maybe Methos had gotten used to being by himself, and he was simply using Duncan to help eliminate his competition. Maybe that was why Methos had wanted Duncan to be alive. And maybe, after Duncan killed Kronos, Methos would eliminate Duncan, too.

She could not take that chance. Duncan was too important to lose. If Duncan killed Kronos, then she would have to protect Duncan while he was recovering from the Quickening. She would kill whomever survived the other battle—either Silas or Methos. Then all the Horsemen would be dead, and it would all be over.

But if Kronos killed Duncan.... Cassandra made her decision. She would kill Kronos before he had a chance to recover from Duncan's Quickening. Either Silas or Methos would take her head immediately after that, so she did not have to worry about becoming insane, at least not for long. And it would be worth it. Kronos would be dead. Sacrificing a queen to take out a king was a good move in this game, and she had been a pawn too long.

The game was almost over now. She could see that all of the combatants were tiring, their blows coming more slowly, their breathing harsh and ragged.

Kronos shouted forth his war cry. "I am the End of TIME!"

She could not hear Duncan's words, but the tone of his snarled response was plain enough. A few more blows were exchanged, then Duncan smiled and swung. His blade sliced Kronos open from hip to neck, then Duncan cut off the Horseman's head. It flew through the air, then skittered along the floor. Cassandra watched every bounce, every roll, every spurt of blood, wondering in vague surprise why she felt nothing.

When the head came to rest against a wall, she turned her attention back to the other Horsemen. That battle was over, too. Silas was a crumpled bulk on the floor, and Methos was simply standing there, his arms outstretched, his sword held loosely in his hand, waiting for the Quickening.

So Methos was the one left for her to kill. It was fitting. As soon as the Quickenings were over, she would pick up Silas's axe and take Methos's head. Then the Horsemen would be destroyed, and Duncan and she—and everyone else—would be safe. That was the way it had to be.

The Quickenings started, a rising wind, a crackle of electricity. Cassandra backed away and closed her eyes as the lightning blasted its way through the room and through the men. She could hear their agonized moans and their cries of anguish, even above the explosions. She felt no sympathy for them. She had heard many people make those sounds over the centuries—women, men, children, infants—people who had done nothing wrong, killed no one.

Methos had listened to her make those sounds, and he had felt no sympathy for her. He had listened, and then he had hurt her even more.

Never again.

The Quickenings were finally over, and Methos was on his hands and knees now, his sword lying on the ground. The waiting was over. It was her turn to kill. She had to protect Duncan, and all the others that Methos might hurt.

Cassandra ran down the gangplank and picked up Silas's axe. She could never had used it in a fight; it was too heavy for her, but she could lift it. And it was still sharp enough.

"I killed Silas!" Methos cried out, his head still down, his shoulders shaking. Raw anguish edged every word, and rasped away the skin again, flaying him alive. "I liked Silas!"

Cassandra did not care. Methos had killed thousands—butchered, raped, and maimed. He had never listened to their cries of sorrow, never once even paused. He deserved to die, and she was glad he was going to die in pain.

She cried out, "Now I'm supposed to forgive you?!" as she raised the axe over her head. Her master was on his hands and knees before her, sobbing. She had been in that position, many times, while he stood over her. Silas had stood over her this way too, just a few minutes ago. But no more.

Cassandra paused, savoring this final moment, the satisfaction of having a weapon in her hand while her master lay helpless before her. She wondered if he would beg for mercy the same way she had once begged him.

Methos had given her no mercy, and he deserved none. All of the Horsemen had to die. She focused on the column of his neck and started the downward stroke.

"Cassandra!"

She froze, checked by the power of that call. It was Duncan, the Highland Foundling, her champion, the child and the man. The axe was a solid weight in her hands as she looked across the cold black water. "You want him to live?" she asked him unbelieving.

Duncan answered from where he sat on the floor. "Yes. I want him to live."

She owed her life to Duncan, and he owed his to her. She did not owe him this. It was not his place to interfere. She shook her head and looked down on Methos. He was still sobbing, still on his hands and knees. It did not matter what he looked like, what he pretended, how he lied. He was still a Horseman, and she would make sure he never hurt anyone again. She readied the axe for the blow.

"CASSANDRA!" Duncan held power over her, and it surged in the sound of her name, reached out to her and stopped her once again. "I want him to live!"

What he wanted? What _he_ wanted! What about what she wanted? What about what Methos deserved? Cassandra looked no more at Duncan. He was not important. This was between her and Methos, as it had been from the beginning. As it was now, at the end.

Methos had not moved. He was still on the ground, still prostrate before her.

Cassandra started trembling then, and she lowered the axe to her shoulder. At the end of what? His life? Or hers? What would she be if she killed Methos, if she took his head and stripped his Quickening from his soul? *Who* would she be, if she took Methos inside her forever?

Was that what she wanted? To be a killer, just like him? To carry that burden within her for the rest of her life, to hear his voice forever? And what would she deserve then? Her sins were different, but were they any less great than his? How can you weigh a sin? An evil? Do they grow less heavy with time? Or more?

Methos had not moved, had not said a word, but she had had her answer. Let she who is without sin strike the first blow. She could not forgive him, but neither could she condemn him.

The axe was too heavy for her, and she cast it aside. Not easily, not with charity or with grace, but she let go of the weapon. She was not yet ready to let go of the hate. Cassandra started up the path away from him, toward the doorway where the sunlight shone, then turned for a final look.

He was still on his knees in the shadows, his sobs quieter, deeper, terrible wracking sobs, coming from a black well of despair. She could almost feel sorry for him now. By sparing his life, she had left him to face the future she had foreseen. The Furies of his conscience would pursue him into madness, unto Death, and beyond.

It was fitting. It was just.

It was Hell.

It was what he deserved.

~~~~~

Cassandra did not bother to return to the hotel; there was nothing for her there. But there was one last duty she must perform. At the bank at the airport, she purchased a money order  then wrote on a piece of paper:  
 

$ 5000 - Payment for sword  
$ 500 - Interest due  
————————————-  
$ 5500 - TOTAL  
  
---  
  
She mailed it to Duncan

MacLeod, care of the Hotel de Seze in Bordeaux. Then she bought a ticket for Mitilini, on the Isle of Lesbos. She was going home.  
 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
**Cassandra's story is continued in Hope Remembered III - Confidante  
**

 

STANDARD DISCLAIMER: Not my universe, not my characters. They belong to the Rysher/Davis/Panzer types. Some of the dialog is directly from the episodes "Comes a Horseman" and "Revelation 6:8" in Highlander: The Series. This story was not written for profit, but because I want Cassandra to get out of my head and she demanded I finish her story.  
   
   
 

**Author's Notes**  
  
---  
  
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS TO:

\- Rhiannon Shaw (for reading the cards)  
\- Megan Serenco (for finding the weak spots)  
\- Genevieve K. Clemens (for keeping me straight about Methos)  
\- Andrea Covell (for her defense of a character she isn't a fan of)  
\- Stacie DeShazer (who spots missing "you"s)  
\- Johanne Briere (who helped me with the French language)  
\- Annie Wortham (fellow member of the Cassandra Wolf Pack.)  
\- Leah Rosenthal (who shared some interesting ideas about Cassandra.)

SPECIAL THANKS TO:  
\- Tanja Kinkel (who has a different yet strangely similar vision of Cassandra.)  
\- Cathy Butterfield (who knows all sorts of things, both odd and true.)  
\- Robin Tennenbaum (who is joining the big leagues now.)  
\- Vi Moreau (who is tired of the Horsemen, but read it anyway and noticed [of course and as always] the things that needed fixing.)  
\- Bridget Mintz Testa (who reads everything I write at least three times over and still wants more. [Even if Connor isn't in this story, either.])

Many, many heartfelt thanks!

~~~~~  
Books used as Resources

"Idiom's Delight" by Suzanne Brock, First Vintage Books, 1988.

~~~~~  
ABOUT CASSANDRA BEING STUPID:

Cassandra does stupid things in this story. I admit that freely. Some of it is due to the really annoying television practice of letting the hero do everything and having side-kicks (especially female ones) wait around and be helpless.

After the fight in the power station, Cassandra should never have waited in Duncan's loft. She knows Methos knows where Duncan lives, and she knows that Methos and Kronos are working together. She should have gone to a hotel and called Duncan at his loft until he answered. However, TV rules deem it easier to have scenes in a familiar setting, and so Cassandra was waiting for Duncan when he got home.

In the Hotel de Seze, when she's waiting for Duncan and feels a buzz, she opens the door without picking up her sword. Hello? Is there any doubt that the three Horsemen could easily defeat Cassandra, even if she is holding a sword? Did they (writers, directors, or whoever sets up those scenes) deliberately set out to make her look as stupid as possible? And why?

It is interesting to note, however, that not one of the three Horsemen had his sword drawn, either.

However, even beyond the standard "helpless female on TV" scenario, Cassandra is stubbornly immune to reason or logic. She ignores, denies, or refutes any evidence that contradicts her original view of Methos.

This is entirely in keeping with her character as a "person on a mission." People who are fixated on a goal—whether that goal is to kill someone (Cassandra), take over Russia (Hitler), or fix a toaster (my father)—ignore anything that suggests their original plan might be wrong. They will twist and interpret facts until the information agrees with what they already "know." They become irritated with people who present them with facts that they do not agree with. They insist their plan of action will work, and that it is the only solution. They are obsessed, in the full meaning of that word.

They are, indeed, stupid—unable (or at least unwilling) to learn or process new information.

However, even though she is under great mental and emotional stress while she is holding an axe over Methos's neck, Cassandra finally allows herself to learn, and decides not to take his head.

~~~~~  
ABOUT KOMODO DRAGONS:

Komodo dragons are monitor lizards, and they live exclusively on six islands in Indonesia. They can grow to ten feet in length. They are excellent swimmers, and when younger and smaller, they can climb trees. Their diet includes goats, deer, pigs, monkeys, and smaller Komodo dragons. (This is why the little ones climb trees.)

Their saliva contains an enzyme which induces gangrene. Should an animal be injured by a Komodo dragon and then escape, the wound will soon start to fester. The smell of the rotting flesh in the wound will attract other dragons.

~~~~~  
TAROT CARDS

Originally, I had planned for Cassandra to use Tarot Cards and do a reading for herself the night before she met Methos in the dojo. Due to various story-telling reasons, this scene was cut. However, the cards I laid out were interesting enough that I thought I would include the reading here. (And no, I did not stack the deck in any way, and Rhiannon did not know who the reading was for.) Many thanks to Rhiannon Shaw for reading the cards for me.

The Celtic Cross pattern was used:

~~~~~~~Rhiannon's Reading ~~~~~~~

Whoofda! Ended up going with the Norse deck on this (the one which works best for me).

As an overview: You have an abundance of arcana, indicating much of this is fixed, immutable, inevitable. You have no true pattern of numbers, which frequently mean that a number of threads are tying together into one knot, but that no one thread predominates. There is no overall 'pattern' as such, only texture and event. There is a shortage of Cups, as well, indicating that emotion is not fully given its share of the work, and emphasized by the abundance of Discs (material things) and Wands (logical thought).

[Author's note: the descriptions of the pictures on the cards are from the Robin Wood deck, not the Norse deck that Rhiannon used. Reversed cards generally have the opposite meaning of what is pictured.]  
 

  | 

Goal:  
**10 of Discs**

|    | 

Outcome  
**Empress (rev)**  
  
---|---|---|---  
  
Near Past:  
**Knight of**  
**Cups (rev)**

| 

Seeker: **Chariot (rev)**  
Covering: **2 of Wands**  
Crossing: **Ace of Wands (rev)**

| 

Near Future:  
**Wheel of**  
**Fortune (rev)**

| 

Hopes/Fears  
**6 of swords**  
  
  | 

Basis for situation:  
**9 of Swords (rev)**

|    | 

Environment:  
**King of Discs (rev)**

Self:  
**Strength**  
  
**ENHANCED OUTCOME**  
 

Knight of Wands (rev)

| 

5 of Discs

| 

Justice  
  
---|---|---  
  
*At base, the Seeker: The Chariot, reversed. [A man standing in a chariot and playing a harp. The chariot is drawn by a white unicorn and a black unicorn.]  
(Card which signifies Cassandra)  
A harsh card, indicative of incomplete success, things unto accomplished because they passed beyond your control. An imbalance or inability to adjust.

*Overlying: 2 of Wands. [A man holding a globe in one hand and a staff (wand) in the other, staring out to sea.]  
(The current situation Cassandra is in)  
This is enterprise, success through hard work, but it also can indicate someone rushing forward into new things as soon as the old one is completed.

*Crossing: Ace of Wands, reversed [a wand surrounded by light, with two sunflowers at the base]  
 (Cassandra's challenge, what crosses her and gets in her way)  
 Decline, destructiveness, a failure to take advantage of ideas.

*Far past: 9 of Swords, reversed [a woman sitting up in bed, her head in her hands, nine swords on the wall behind her.]  
Isolation, lack of aid or assistance, suicidal actions.

*Near past: Knight of Cups [a knight riding the crest of the waves on a white sea-horse]  
Intelligent person, a bringer of ideas, but one who needs constant stimulation to retain an interest in things. (Cassandra met Duncan this afternoon. In the original deck, the Knight of Cups can be a lover.)

*Near Future: 10 of Discs [a happy family scene]  
Inheritance, family wealth, a legacy from days past falling due at last.

*Possible outcome: Wheel, reversed [the wheel of fortune, divided into 8 sections]  
Bad luck, or at the least, a turn for the worst. The past catches up to you in the spinning wheel, and you can't adapt or adjust fast enough.

*Self: Strength [a woman with a lion]  
Thoughts, self-discipline, the overcoming of obstacles through control of one's thoughts, the suppression of unwanted emotion.

*Environment: King of Discs, reversed [a crowned man dressed in green, seated on a throne in the forest]  
Materialistic, grasping, a person insensitive to change.

*Hopes/Fears: 6 of Swords [a person in a boat being rowed by a ghostly figure]  
Leaving troubles behind, solving problems by intellect. Sometimes a long journey or flight from danger.

*Outcome: Empress, reversed [a pregnant woman seated at a spinning wheel, with symbols of harvest around her]  
Restriction, an overcontrolling (maternal) figure; female domination. Sterility of body or soul.

*Enhanced outcome: (three more cards)  
-Knight of Wands, reversed [a knight in armor on a horse in a desert landscape]  
A quarrelsome, narrow-minded person.

-5 of Discs [two beggars outside a church]  
Financial troubles, possibly. A favorable outcome is possible but must be watched for cautiously.

-Justice [a woman holding scales in one hand and an upraised sword in the other]  
Justice and balance, truth. Arbitration and agreement, through outside influence.

**The reading:**

Old forces are coming back (10 Discs; Wheel of Fortune, reversed), old thoughts and legacies returning to roost. Things that were beyond your control (Chariot, rev) may be marginally within your control now (2 Wands), but be very, very careful. The reversed Wheel shows there's no escaping it, and the 9 of Swords reversed indicates a lack of prior preparation for this.

Consideration must go into this, and a willingness to do what is most useful, not most safe or most desired (Ace Wands; Wheel, rev; King of Discs; Empress, rev; 5 Discs). Beware the surfeit of thought without contemplation shown in the combined Wands at the center of this. A successful path may yet be picked, but an overabundance of intellect, of planning, could be disastrous.

Above all, be willing to look at alternatives, at necessary costs and outcomes, at other people's points of view. Mental inflexibility and narrowness of focus could be disastrous. Take what help you have, and value their sight as well as your own (Knight of Cups)

~~~~~  
Hope that helps. That one was... interesting. If I got that reading for someone, I'd want to know what they *did* in their past life. We have serious issues here of old griefs and injuries which have been picked at, or left to scar without Physical Therapy to restore mobility. That dreaded goddess Karma is coming home to roost on someone who's not prepared to clean the pigeon droppings. Ech. Also, the reading indicates the recipient is, essentially, isolated still, which is *not* good. Nasty one. Haven't seen one that bad in *ages*.  
   
 

 

 


End file.
